


Holes

by wolf_shadoe



Series: The Inkverse [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-06 00:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18377507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/pseuds/wolf_shadoe
Summary: In the post-Chosen world Spike and Buffy try to navigate the holes in their lives together.





	1. Castles

**Author's Note:**

> Previously in the Inkverse:  
> When Sunnydale tumbled into its crater eight months ago, Buffy stomped straight back down and demanded her vampire back. Now overseeing the new Slayer's Council from Chicago and with the scoobies scattered across the globe, life only seems to get more complicated every time she gets out of bed.  
> Drug use warning for marijuana.  
> POV switches keyed as: x for Spike, + for Buffy, % for everyone else.  
> Huge ginormous world's of thanks to Badwolfjedi, the best-est beta and cheerleader I could ever wish for 💘  
> And huge thanks to everyone who let me know they liked the previous stuff, your encouragement means so so much 💙  
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

 

 

**Scotland**

**23rd December 2003**

**10pm**  


 

**x**

The castle stands at the end of a dusty gravel road, a last lonely little outthrust outpost of civilisation against the sea. He pulls to a stop, cuts the engine, and they sit in place, his hand sliding from the wheel to cover hers on the bench seat. There's a cluster of cars parked in front of the grey stone walls, faint snatches of conversation drifting from a softly lit window above - not so lonely on the inside then. Eventually she presses the edge of her lips into a smile and he takes that as his cue, giving her hand a final squeeze before reaching for their bags.

He's about to knock when Andrew tears the door open, diving forward a half step then halting in an awkward stumble; his natural enthusiastic excitement clashing against the image he's trying so hard to cultivate. Hero worship still holding up here then.

“Welcome, welcome, to wearied travelers all. Allow me to conduct you to the sitting room where you may regale us with news from abroad.”

He fills them in as they follow along - no word from Xander either way, but everyone else is here. Well, except Faith, opting to spend Christmas with Angel. And Robin, staying with his team (thank fuck). Giles they've left in Chicago.

“So who _is_ here then?” Buffy asks.

“Everyone! Dawn of course accompanied me yesterday, with Tricia, Toby, and Livie. But you haven’t met, I guess. Willow, most gracious hostess of this impressive abode, and her new team, plus three potential Watchers. Vi’s arriving at 3pm, with some of her squad. And now you two! Just wait till you see what Willow’s done to decorate.”

They step through a double door into a room bigger than their apartment, scattered with various couches, chairs, rugs, and side tables. And people. A lot of people.

Conversation dies down as they're noticed, and Buffy ducks her head and waves vaguely at the room as she hurries across to greet Dawn.

“Allow me to introduce you to the latest additions to Squadra di Roma,” says Andrew, backstepping towards a cluster of youngsters around a coffee table. The boy's anxious tension has skyrocketed - whatever he's playing at here, it matters to him. Spike though hardly feels like puzzling out which hat he's supposed to wear with this crowd, so opts for a bored aloofness, hands to himself and curt nod at the pack of them.

The two girls - Tricia and Livie - unconsciously shift their backs closer together, instinct kicking in. Good.

Toby, however, fairly _exudes_ refined casualness, manner exactly matched to the ‘street trendy vintage...from only the _very best_ designers’ ensemble he's dressed in. If this is who Andrew’s out to impress then he's got his work cut out for sure. _And don't bloody expect my help._

The lack of recognition does niggle though, only sense to show a vamp the proper respect and all, ain't it? So he takes a seat next to Toby and stretches his arms out across the back of the couch, clomps the heels of his battle-vintaged boots on the table and turns his back on him to engage the girls.

 

**+**

Dawnie _seems_ content, chattering meaninglessly about classes and shopping and additions to her _casa_ . Buffy longs to probe her properly, draw out the real stuff and look it over in excruciating detail; but-- _don't pick the scab._ Strange how they can be so close, know each other so intimately, and yet need the barrier of this wall held between them, pushed up from both sides. Or maybe not strange at all.

Move back then, retreat far enough to tip-toe stretch and peep over the wall, catch for a more comfortable smile across the distance and offer one in return. Just, let yourself be warm inside your blockades please, beloved bloodkin mine. It's cold outside.

 

**x**

Willow hurries in, apologies flying for being trapped on the phone when they arrived. Hugs hello to Buff and quick-fire catch-up, then she's headed his way, “Let me show you where to put your stuff,” with whisper message attached: _could we have a word?_ And so he finds himself led down and around again until they reach a low-ceilinged roughstone room, a vast dark wood table running the length of it with bench seats either side.

“Servant's dining hall,” she informs him, “Dark all day down here. Bedrooms down the left - take your pick - main kitchen up those stairs, door opens to the carpark. We've been double bolting it at dusk since something tried to get in the first night, so don't leave it open unattended.”

“ _Something_ something? Or just a bit of wildlife?”

“I don’t know...it certainly didn't feel dangerous, probably just a hedgehog. But any scratching in the dark, spooky, you know? I'd like to post a guard for a night to make sure but I wanted the girls to settle in first, we only arrived a couple of days ago ourselves.”

“Gotcha. We'll keep an ear out.”

“Thanks.” She looks to the side then, flash of (guilt?); pricking his ears for the real discussion. “How is Buffy?”

He narrows his eyes, assessing. Not liking the sudden vibe of underhandedness.

“How d’you think? You birds are level, no need to go asking me.”

He turns away, moving for the outside door, but she follows, bringing the conversation along too.

“It's just… the power's still… moving. I've felt it since the activation, but I don't know how it's affecting her. She's my best friend, but she'll never let me _see_ her the way you can.”

She know more than she's sharing? Suspicion something at least. Narrow eyes further; lock her in hard.

“Still moving how?”

She looks mighty uncomfortable now.

“It's nothing, just the effect of all these girls picking it up I'm sure.”

Cold voice now, anger tightening.

“Don't lie to me, Red. If you're hiding something then you'd best be spilling, ‘fore we find out otherwise and I have to balance things.”

Crackle smackle energy jump-sparking like the blow of a light bulb, snapping static across hair as she points anger,

“Don't you go thinking you can still take me!”

Lean talk close and quiet; double back the threat.

“You do something that could hurt her and you _know_ I'll try.”

She sags at the _hurt_ , face twisting, tears springing.

“No! I'd never-- Goddess, I'm sorry, Spike.” Little fluffy girl again with gulp of fear. “There’s no secret, I swear. It's just a feeling. I just wanted to make sure she's ok.”

It drains from him too, and he shakes his head, looking down with an ironic chuckle.

“Bloody hell. Ditto, Red. Talk to her, ay? Feel it out together.

And for Christ's sake watch yourself, that's gonna get away on you soon the way you're jumping so hot.”

“I know. It's just too easy now.”

“Oh it's always been too easy.” He sighs, looking away. “If there is a problem she won't want to put it on you unless she has to. And it ain't my place.”

 

**+**

A round of slamming doors and shouted greetings wakes them the next morning, and she groans and buries deeper under the duvet.

“What time do they call this?”

He cocks his head, thinks for a moment.

“Ten maybe? Bit early for Vi.”

“I'd better go see.” Already out of bed in her head, and soon in fact too. _Xander?_

But instead in the hall stands Robin, gaggle of girls in tow.

“Buffy,” he says warmly, extending a smile over Andrew’s head, “Merry Christmas.”

She tries not to look disappointed, gift a smile to pass around the group.

“Just thought you'd drop by?”

“Well, we were down to just the six of us hanging about until new years, so I thought why not? Proper old fashioned yuletide in a castle's not to be passed up.”

“You know it's tempting fate expecting a holiday from the hellmouth.”

He laughs, rich and warm.

“I've promised I won't unpack the trunk. All set prepared and waiting to bolt back at a moment’s notice should reverse jinx us I hope. And the golden team are on nights.”

“Golden team now is it? Everyone's meeting in the sitting room at four so you can brag then.”

Andrew bustles the group on past excitedly, and she drifts back downstairs, mind turning inwards.

The golden team, of course, are the four girls she'd taken to San D last month, now outgrown the confines of the Cleveland headquarters and working independently. And working together. They'd gridded out the city ambitiously, and started patrolling different hot spots each night, tallying up kills for weekly reports back to Chicago.

Cleveland had never generated much interest on the ‘demonic places to be’ until the Sunnydale hellmouth fell, and with this new deadly greeting party in place it appears to be swiftly falling into ‘places to avoid’ from its brief stint in the spotlight.

It could soon be too well defended in fact, maybe time to reshuffle everyone? It won't do well to have the girls bored and grating on each other; these small tightly bonded cells seem to work best as their own separate units, a balance struck between the isolating nature of their calling and the strength of a team. _Scooby gangs, plural_.

She'll have to talk to Giles, find out what family ties are involved and who should move where. Of course, that's assuming the next big bad doesn't pick Cleveland and necessitate drawing them all in again. Touch wood (ha). But if the foursome’s staking out territory then Robin can do the moving on, let them claim it proudly.

But first, _coffee._

 

**x**

Damn but Vi’s got some spark these days, he thinks, watching her bubble over with enthusiasm as she explains her project to the crowd. Still radiating that endearing sweetness, but now backed by a steel core of assurity.

Willow watches her with something wistful and damp-eyed, and he feels sympathetic finally. Girl’s no more ready to run this branch of teenage army than Buffy wants to play head honcho, but no less determined to step up and try. Ever-willing Willow, wishful replacing wilful. But watch those wishes little witch, they've a way of turning on you. Flashback to wedding planning and he can't help a rueful smile; ‘twas some fun in simpler times for sure. But big leagues now and no going back. Will, be done.

Vi breaks the laptop out and gets down to specifics with a couple from Robin’s team - her web series has taken off spectacularly, drawing in eighty new girls this month, and many of them those who spurned other outreach efforts (or simply hadn’t been located yet). Advertising via thinly veiled descriptions of sudden power and disturbing dreams; offering answers and contact with others in the same boat. Perfect hint of x-men specialness and conspiratorial secrets awaiting, along with the familiarity of peer lingo and platform.

Next step would be to appoint a few watchers full time to the chat rooms, make their expert advice and research available 24/7 from anywhere in the world, plus someone to organise backup and assistance when required. They'll need to be the right personalities though; people who can be supportive without seeming disempowering, patrons without patronising. The rapid talk trails away suddenly as she remembers herself, looking to Buffy with a flush.

“That is, I mean, if you think that would maybe be ok one day maybe?”

Slayer just continues beaming at her, looks almost ready to burst into grateful tears for fuck’s sake.

“Vi, _god._ Of course, whatever you need, let's make a list while you’re here. This is just… It's amazing, what you're doing, all of it. _You're_ amazing. I just can't tell you how…”

 _Hug her_ he thinks at Vi, ‘ _afore she starts blubbering everywhere._ It's not just Slayer's eyes that are wet though.

 

 

 

**+**

Thirty-two people all told in the hall for Christmas dinner, slayer strength making light work of relocating furniture until there's seats aplenty. They follow tradition in leaving one open waiting for unexpected guests. _Come on, Xander!_ goes unsaid, except in darting glances between the Sunnydale refugees. The rest are more at ease together than she's seen them so far, spirit of the day finally encouraging laughter where they could choose to take offense, competitiveness forgotten in childish excitement over pulling crackers and sharing the truly abhorrent jokes within. _What’s round and bad tempered? A vicious circle._

She tries again to help in the kitchen, but Wills only shoos her off yet again, _this I've got down. Go peacemake._ One of Willow’s potential Watchers is darting here-there-everywhere, practiced hands gliding dishes from the great oven with gusto. _Pedro_ , Willow mouths smugly, _used to be a sous-chef._

 _You sneaky girl, no wonder you didn't want to forward this one to Andrew!_ Lucky, too, the dashing suave on him would swallow that puppy heart at first glance. Buffy rolls her eyes and leaves them to it.

 

**x**

Buffy flits about the table with all the anxiety of a new housewife holding her first formal meal, collecting scraps of cracker ends and refilling half-full glasses. Puts him in mind suddenly of a certain thanksgiving (shift and resettle, _free movement, check!_ ). But thanks-giving now and back then all the same, for her inherent sense of ethics that gave him a foot in the door to sanctuary, and the unnecessary small kindnesses that made it bearable.

Dawn-bit put sit near his side, canyon of an empty chair between them. So grown, so suddenly; poise and elegance replacing her coltish skip-thump. Careful with each other now, sidestepping old wounds as they softly-softly feel out new boundaries. She's drawing her lines in heavy ink with everyone these days, preemptive fortressing prompted by observation of the way they all once (twice, thrice) crumbled around her. A pang of course at the distance; but tonight there's a maybe-sense that once she's solidified her base enough she'll be a shining beacon of her own, reaching across to touch them all. The door might be locked for now, but she knows keys this one.

He snags his own bit of cracker rubbish off the table, unfurls the joke and deadpans it to her, “What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?”

“What?”

“Frostbite.”

She rolls her eyes and groans, but can't help a slight smirk sneaking in.

“Seriously, who wrote these? They're all terrible. And _vampire_ jokes?”

“That’s the whole point silly, supposed to be embarrassingly ridiculous. Gotta breach that stiff upper lip somehow. ‘Sides, there aren't any good vampire jokes. They all suck.”

She shakes her head at her lap and the smile grows. _That's it, Bit. Set it aside for today._

“See, Dawn, the problem with vampire jokes is that the good ones never see the light of day.”

She looks at him then, grin fading into a small but real smile. “I know one that did. And he makes the whole world that bit brighter for it.” She cocks her glass at him, “Merry Christmas, Spike.” He blinks, then grabs his own to clink against it as she whispers, “ _love you_ , _you big softie.”_

 

**%**

Giles.

There's a weighty silence on the line, making him strain his ear in closer to try and catch some hint, before “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” screams from the handset in jumbled chorus. He jerks it back from his ear with a wince, scotch sloshing dangerously. “Did we get ya?” Her giggle bubbles down the line with enough effervescence to make him wonder if she’s had a glass or two of her own.

“Well, yes, yes, Merry Christmas to you too, Buffy.” He smiles despite himself, seasonal cheer undeniably contagious. How long since they've spoken to speak? Business always with the penultimate slayer general, but she sounds different today; carefree by context and company, a rare glimpse of the fun-loving girl of old. He's proud, of course, of her remarkable growth and achievements, but it’s coloured by such shame when he looks back. _I made you a leader, but refused to be lead. Forgive me an old fool's hubris._ And maybe she does, long has really, and this call a cross continent olive leaf of an emergent relationship of some kind beyond the uneasy truce of war.

A final round of merry Christmases to and fro, another burst of laughter, then she calls off. He replaces the handset with a gentle sigh, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes. _Oh how good it is to hear her smile._

Unbeaten, after all, against all portents. Yet some part had been, somewhere along the way; the inner strength she carries nowadays doesn’t come without first being broken and rebuilt. He'd just missed seeing it; had turned his back and left her. Broken girl in a broken nest; _hold my hand,_ she'd begged, _I can't do this alone._ Shaking his head as he turned away, _you must, you can, if I push you. It's time to swim._

(lies though, and the truth screaming in his heart - _I just can't bear to witness you sink.)_

That whisper waiting in the shadows - _I’ll take your hands, luv -_ and did that assuage his guilt or add to it? His conscience hinting of endings there, whether dusty catharsis or another notch on the belt, and if the second then at least her death would be aptly respectful, legend of her final battle held in immortal. But it was notches on the headboard instead as they consumed each other into darkest corners.

Returned to find a woman standing alone; didn’t realise it was the torch she carried that had relit her from within.

And yet she'd forgiven him his misstep - denied it, in fact - instantly and unquestioningly, as was her wont for all those blessed with her love. Rightly or wrongly.

If there's forgiveness though for his final backstab it has to come without forgetting; some wounds go beyond repair. Remembers that last time she'd look up to him; her sense of humouring him of course with this little fledge fight as Official Lesson Plan, but comforted by regressing for a moment, redressing (one final time) in the old familiar roles. Guilt settling concrete in his gut as she waited for him to Impart the Wisdom ( _god, but the way her eyes shone_ ). Right up until the floor fell out to reveal his reality in the abyss beneath her: trust no one.

Fully fledged finally as she fled from the betrayal, last lesson learnt: _he_ is all you have; only one trusting. The devil you know not a man.

He'd thought her blinkered, enthralled; displaying recklessly naivety in choosing evil to breath down her neck. _She'll never see it coming;_ his duty to be watchful. Excuse after excuse to hide the truth; he'd tried to fight evil with itself, while she burnt it away with her love.

God have mercy on a failed watcher, he'd just been so blind.

 

**+**

The buzz of chatter winds down into sated yawns and soft voices after pudding, blending through the background sound of high-tide waves surging and rolling on an exterior wall. There's a lulling rhythm to the deep swoosh and pull; endless crash, flow, retreat, reform.

He ducked out a few minutes earlier, so now she slips from the room and pads the halls in a new direction, picking up the edge of that tingle which lately feels so much a part of her own body's homeostasis to only be noticeable in absence. The corridors are dim and cool up here; the chill breeze wafting down one coming laced with the scents of seafoam and smoke, strengthening the trail to a half-closed door.

He leans on the edge of the rampart, watching the ocean below through far away eyes, cigarette forgotten in his fingers, and she takes a page from his book to lounge back on the doorframe and just watch, absorb, admire.

By moonlight he glows both ethereal and solid in one, a dream creature crossed tossed into reality, moonbeam made man _. Achingly beautiful_ . And it bubbles up inside of her, warm glow of gratefulness building brimming bursting, propelling her forwards to where he's already opening an arm out behind him for her to slide inside. She presses in, nudges her head firmly up under his jaw as he pulls her close and she just needs to _squeeze_ this feeling into him too. So she does, rejoicing a moment in slayer muscles unrestricted, unfettered, this full whole body emotion free with him only, equally matched. And then swamped, overwhelmed after all, as he cocks his head over to catch her eye and the feeling transmutes to the velvet fudgy _shared_ indulgence of loving.

He tosses his ciggie out over the sea with a flick and she follows the little ember trailing out - out - out and then-- subsumed, extinguished in the crest and splash of cool blue waves. A throb-thump of mirrored heat inside and she thinks, _oh yes,_ and reaches, gliding fingers up under his shirt, sliding splayed down silky skin to slip under belt to find him hard against the denim of his jeans; wraps her hand tight around him as he _growls_ under his breath, accelerating her pulsing need to urgent demand. _Bedtime?_ she whispers. But he shakes his head in one firm decisive motion and uses the arm around her waist to lift and sit her on the rampart in front of him as the other goes to his belt. She tugs the hem of her dress free and peels it up and off as she lies back against the stone, stretching arms out over the open sea behind her then letting go as the wind catches and flutters it away. Revealed new Christmas lingerie in deep crimson with a trim of softest white fur and she'd planned to be careful with these, really had, but now as his breath hitches sharply and a tremor flickers through him they're job-done-encumbrance-now and _get them off_ she orders instead.

 

**x**

Languorous now, despite icy cold stone on naked skin as they lie side-by-side on the rooftop. Could lie here forever.

She watches the stars with big wondering eyes, and murmurs, _did you ever hear them? When they talked to Dru, I mean._ His first impulse to scoff, insanity not bloody contagious thank you very much, someone hadta keep grip on reality. But… And she murmurs again, question gone rhetorical, _maybe they speak to everyone, and we just don't pause to notice._ And it's an odd concession from her usual disdain for foresight, so he stays silent and ponders too.

“I haven't got my coat,” he says at last, “you wanna put my kit on and go fetch me something?”

“No, I'm not leaving you out for Toby to nab. I'll just make with the sneaky.”

“Don’t think I'm cool enough for that asshole,” he grimaces, remembering Andrew’s wistful glances that way over dinner, “and Giles-Junior ain't got a shitshow in hell so far.”

“Don't bet against him just yet, he's hardly one to do things by halves.” She rubs at the goosebumps on her arms as she rises, “But you’re quite cool enough for me anyway, come on.”

So he shrugs his jeans on quickly to follow her feather-light steps through the sleeping castle, hair rippling down her naked back. She tiptoes with the fluid grace of a dancer, heady promise in her eyes with each over-shoulder glance. _Minx._

 _“You,”_ he whispers when they reach their room, “ _are the most astonishingly beautiful creature to ever walk this earth.”_

And _now_ she blushes, dipping her eyes.

 _“It's you,”_ she says quietly, “ _filling me with it.”_ And blushes harder with a shy giggle.

“I bleeding love you, Slayer,” he smiles, and it feels like the universe must be smiling with him.

 

 

 


	2. Xander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters cover roughly the same period of time, from different angles.

 

 

 

** % **

Xander.

He goes, it goes, like this…

Knock knocking on stranger doors like a religious zealot, dressed the part in button down and tie.

He brings council leaflets printed in swahili and zulu, dictionary, phrasebook. Last one useless: no entry for ‘your daughter has been chosen to fight the forces of darkness in a never-ending battle until the day she dies, (but hey, brightside people - that won't be long)’. 

Funny, that. 

Would have laughed, once. 

Boxing day he stands outside a supermarket in Capetown, staring at a display in tinsel and paper snowflakes. Thinking, when was Christmas? Anya’d had plans. 

Christmas stock reduced to clear and up front is special edition spiced rum in some classy red velvet lined gift box, golden embossed lettering espousing sentiments beyond his pay rate. The man giftwraps it for him then asks if he would like a 

\- receipt?

and this (of all things)

gives 

 him 

  pause. 

 

Would she be thrilled with proof of his bargain barter skills and money saved? Or disappointed he'd not paid lavishly, honour to her worth etc? How could he profess to think he'd ever really known her. 

He pays full price  _ and _ takes the receipt, cashier eyeing him strangely (though not wishing to disagree). Walks back to the hotel clutching it tightly and asking himself,  _ what the fuck am I doing?  _

Then an email from Giles, -  _ condolence visit on Friday, please.  _ Hand over payment for the child stolen away; enough American dollars to set a family up for life around here. He's the best at these missions, something in manner (or eyepatch?) translating the sincere emotion of his little words across cultural divides:  _ I’m so sorry for your loss. I know this token could never repay (what's left of) your family.  _ This’ll be his fourth such visit for December. Few enough in the grand scheme of things; too many, he fears, for him to sustain the proper level of restraint. Week prior was a father snatching greedily, all too glad to win the metaphysical gambling game by trading an unneeded daughter for cold hard cash. He’d wanted to punch the lout, but the sight of a wife sitting utterly crushed behind had him bowing his own head in empathy instead. Please not another of those.

It's worse. The girl's grandmother invites him in,  _ please, you must eat with us, it is tradition.  _ ‘Us’ being herself and a huge brown dog with mournful eyes. Grandmother pours tea with trembling hands and they sip in silence, because what was there to say? At the door he passes over the envelope shamefacedly, hurrying away as she stares down at it in confusion.

Blinking red light of email alert on his laptop that night, but he can't understand how to  t y p e in report of 

the  g r a n d m o t h e r  and d o g and 

e  m p  t y n  e s s 

so leave it all unopened too

sit staring static at Anya’s gift utop the broken tv

saturday, 

sunday,

(red light goes flat)

monday. 

Tuesday morning Spike kicks his door in.

.

Answers his quirked brow with a shrug;  _ how to explain? Don't know myself. Present for a demon. _ And that thought making him cackle at the irony: raise a hand and say “here!” Quirked brow turns into a furrow, so, “help yourself,” he adds and chucks the gift to him. Spike opens it cautiously, inspects the label, picks up the bottle and inquires of the empty box for explanation. Finding none finally cracks the seal, gives it a sniff, shrugs to himself and starts swigging.

Which is how Xander comes to spend a Tuesday afternoon perched awkwardly on the edge of his bed next to a tipsily sprawled sleeping vampire while the last drops of a $300 bottle of rum soak into his pillow.

 

** x **

He blinks to full wakefulness as the sun begins to sink, taking a minute to study the boy sleeping snuggled up beside him. Even in unconsciousness Xander’s face is weary, one hand stretched out to clutch onto Spike's shoulder and his body curled around the arm, drowning man clinging to any anchor. Drained, in bed with the undead.

Spike sighs and slithers free carefully, then pokes around the room tossing things in Xander’s backpack. 

“What are you doing?” comes in tired resignation.

“Packing. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, you are. I'm not spending the night in this dump, even if you do keep a bloke warm in bed.”

“I dan't--’ 

_ Do not, can not, dare not? All of the above, probably. _

Spike storms over and grabs the front of his shirt, hauling him face-to-face. 

“ _ Get your shit together. Call us a cab. I will  _ _ make _ _ you, Harris, so don't bloody push me.” _

He shoves Xander back and dumps the backpack on his lap, turning to check out the window as his fingers start drumming on his thigh. 

“Why are you here?” 

He snatches in a breath ready to whirl back round, knock the wanker out to be dragged back in the cargo hold. But no, Xander's closing the zips on the bag and maybe the emphasis lay on ‘you’.  _ Keep your own shit together,  _ he tells himself,  _ when’d you become so bloody dependent?  _

“Three bleeding days, Harris, you can't manage to pick up a phone, click send on an email?! What’d you think we'd just forget all about you? Why the fuck _ I _ volunteered to check on your sorry ass I don't know - must be off my blimmen rocker - but she's a day's travel and night’s sleep behind so I intend to drag you back to O’Hare before she has to come out. In one piece or ten, no difference to me.”

“Alright.” He rises to stand in the middle of the room, shoulders the backpack and gestures for Spike to lead the way.

 

** + **

_ Willow could have mentioned the bleeding eight! hour! hike back to civilisation.  _ Of course, she'd still have insisted on buddy-palling her safely to the sanctuary, but she'd have made a bigger deal out of it. Tallied up the miles to be converted to The Cookies of Will-pology maybe. But if Willow thinks maybe there's something to be gained from a mystical mystery tour in the back-end of beyond…she hopes she's right.  _ Be blessed out there. Miss you.  _

Legs aching, heart aching, she stumbles from her flight and checks the arrivals board for the status of his. Two hours until it gets in, so she finds a corner seat and curls her legs up to rest her head against her knees as she waits. Always a ribbon of fear when they place pilotship in the hands of the great airport machine - no disability category for ‘extreme sunlight allergy’ and surely inevitable that sooner or later they'll find themselves trapped on a long haul flight with darker-hatted demons of one kind or another. More than a ribbon when he travels alone, but she's doing her best to smother it down; if only he'd at least  _ pretend _ respect for the blazing ball of death above she might find it easier to stop fussing over it in steed. Mostly, though: it just feels wrong to be apart now that they're so close.  
Add a Xander-shaped pile of extra worry today, Spike's forward message so brief:  _ Found him. Bringing with.  _ The missing string of complaints and insults can only mean severe badness. 

She's half-dozing when she senses him at last, and rises with a stretch to stand rubbing her arms awake in the crowd at the gate.

Their eyes find each other's instantly, and all that's whirling inside of her stills even as he stops in place. They search each other: peripherally scanning for injury, noting fatigue and tension in bearing and position; soul-deep for everything more as the message is broadcast,  _ here  _ we _ are.  _ Then with mutual breath of relief they move to close the space and  _ touch _ , the crowd subconsciously rippling away from the intensity of the current between them. 

Xander drifts along in Spike's wake, and a jolt goes through her at the sight of him: his puppy-eagerness lost behind bruisey pallor, stubbled face, stagger to his step and gaze blearily unfocused. She wraps him in a hug and he feels softly fragile somehow, mortal and weak. Spike shrugs at her unspoken question, so she turns to practicalities,  _ let's go home. Let me feed you.  _

She sends a message to Willow that night,  _ we've got him. Will take care. _

 

** % **

He watches through his lonely eye and it pains him dully, so that sometimes he slides the patch across to the right side and closes his lids and they seem to sense then to leave him be but not leave him, just settle at the edge of his bubble. 

It's not the silliness in the end though and it's not the bicker-banter but it's the unseeninbetweens 

and he sees that here is something to draw a focus on now.

He looks at her like she's the angel, Xander thinks, but no, more than that...as though she’s his god, the only god, the true sun to pale that dangerous ball outside. He drinks her in by eye and breath then fills with the glow of her, becoming radiant himself. Sees him do it purposefully sometimes, when they're in public, in crushing rushing racing - sees how Spike coasts his nose past her hair, lips slightly parted, those long eyelashes fluttering half-closed as he inhales softly. Then falls silent, chest still, carrying  _ her _ right inside for a time, and if forced to break it, to speak before he's ready, sees the way she'll take his hand softly, without looking, tethering him without drawing attention. And so Xander finds himself now too inhaling when Spike does this thing, but can't hold it the same of course; barred from the altar service by the burn of his human lungs. 

So he looks at her through his seeing eye, at how small tired weak looking really she is but not weak really he knows, something stronger than ever showing to her now, worn down to diamond hardness maybe, but still. These little cracks all over diamond showing through - cuts, diamond does, like nothing else - cuts with bad news from sisters and watchers and worry worrying always underneath:  _ Where do we go? When does it end?  _

but: more unseeninbetweens always then as the flow circles around to Spike returning - little touch - gentle move - stand close - be silent and draw attention to breaths setting a rhythm; and she copying and Xander too across the room copying and everything smoothing again to harmony and  _ we can do this. _

but: not a god of course; not immortal not infallible not unfailing and if (when) she does then what becomes of her disciples? Dangling their world on a string of daisies knowing one day it will be gone gone gone. How can one small soul hold so much and how can he risk embracing it?

So in the end he asks, needing to know, searching,  _ convert me crucify me consecrate me somehow to your golden temple  
_ (show me the way to your truth in the light to speak)

And Spike answers says it finally then the simple truth  
\- can't afford to do ought else can I? need to hold her up there safe. need to believe the impossible thing, else the fear’d break me. It's a choice we make (you bloody tosser), grab what we can with both hands and fuck what comes after.  
And anyway, don't you see the way she  _ shines?  _ Impossibly. 

So in the daily current he starts try and grab at things as they float by; capture these inbetweens somehow so they can be piled up to make...? 

.

Buffy fusses, and jabbers, and pushes ice cream and pizza nights,  _ let me fight somehow for you! Just tell me what to do…’  
_ He doesn't know how to explain himself; the bad-teenage-drama pointlessness of it all, the drifting downward spiral.  _ Sorry.  
‘Leave off, Slayer,’  _ says Spike,  __ ‘let him be’.  
So she does, jabbering replaced with a silent frown of concern. He can't think of a joke to -turnthatfrownupsidedown- anymore, can't be the comic relief so desperately needed with their lives, but he takes a spoon and they demolish a tub over the kitchen table and she smiles at him anyway. 

He doesn't unpack his laptop, and no one mentions it. Begins looking for ways he can make himself useful around the place, but everything feels tokeney, with that sense of intruding upon the established patterns of the household. He runs daylight errands at Spike's behest ‘ _ blueberries. We need ‘em. Go fetch, pup,’  _ but they feel like so many setups designed to force him to check in with the world. His presence makes it easier for them to drop everything and tear out the door for Lorwickton; but she calls in ten times that day under pretence,  _ did I turn the oven off?  _ And he knows he's responsible for their swift return. 

One day Spike insists on his accompaniment to the apartment across the hall, and he meets Jemima, permanent smile and quick talking. ‘ _ He's the carpenter,’  _ says Spike, ‘ _ have him look at that cupboard, it'll keep him out of my hair for a bit’.  _ Xander about to deny -  _ not anymore -  _ but Jem too quick with the ‘ _ oh would you, it just needs opening, jammed itself shut with a broken latch somehow and if you could just pry it open I'll wedge it that way and problem solved would only take a moment for a strapping lad like you and William says you're much better as these sorts of things…’  _ so he fixes the cupboard (properly), and tightens everything coming loose, oils hinges, changes a light bulb. His heart's not in it though; that sense of accomplishment missing. He accepts her thanks, refusing payment with embarrassment and a mild spark of irritation at the stupid vampire who broke it in the first place. 

That evening Buffy calls him to the door, where Jem puts a dusty shoebox into his hands.  _ ‘I've been meaning to get rid of this old thing, but I just thought maybe you'd like to tinker before it goes out in the rubbish? The rewind seized up about a decade ago and I've long since replaced it.’  _ Inside’s an old camera and jumble of lenses, film canisters, flash.  _ ‘I don't--’  _ but she's backing away, hands up. ‘ _ No returns.’ _

It sits on the kitchen table for a few days until,  _ ‘that photography place on the next block would probably be keen if you clean it up,’ _ Buffy says, and so with that in mind, tinker he does.

The whir and click pleases him somehow, the feel of metallic mechanical parts moving through precise channels, only the little winding knob jammed to spoil the flow. He dismantles all the pieces and cleans each carefully, then reassembles it for everything to glide smoothly under his fingers.  
Takes it down the road the next day, ‘ _ I’ve been given this…’  
_ Shopkeeper looks it over, sights down the lense and nods.  
‘ _ It’s in lovely condition, bit old now but a decent piece like this doesn't date. Selling?’  
‘I guess.’  
‘You tested it?’  
‘No, I don't know anything…’  
_ The man rattles the film canisters and finds one full; loads it up for him and explains the iso settings briefly.    
__ ‘Go shoot this, bring it back in and we'll see how she does.’

So he carries it home with him again, pondering.

Remembers Revello’s photos everywhere. Joyce. Tara. A brightly smiling trio of teenagers. There's one of Joyce on the apartment wall now, courtesy of Dawn's pen pal; one of Tara with that soft smile and an armload of books, retrieved from the university website. No Anya. One thousand plus years on this earth and she didn't leave a single image, except in memory. None of the potentials they lost that year either. _What happened to Andrew’s movies? Swallowed up, I guess, like everything else._ Remembers, too, the grandmother and dog in their sparse cottage - no photos there; ID card and passport from the council probably all she has left. And looks at Buffy now: swatting ineffectively at Spike's hands on her hips as she mixes something at the bench, before turning finally to rub floury hands on the front of his black shirt with an evil laugh turning shrieky giggle as he snags her hand in his and raises it to and nibble at her thumbpad, eyes only for each other in a universe of their own. He thinks: _this_ moment, capture it.

So raises the camera and the world looks different through the lens, two dimensionality right somehow, rotate into focus and 

*click*

and wind the film on. 

.

Buffy in Japan overnight and Spike drags him to a bar; ‘ _ I don't drink’  _ protestation but ‘ _ You're my driver, idjit. Get a move on and do something about that shirt for christsakes, ain't being seen in public with you like that.’  _ Easier to go along than argue the point (and insulting the black/black/bleach ensemble was pointless from the get-go).

So: sketchy little downstairs dive on the edge of town. Doubt Spike's the only vamp seen here tonight 

and does that man in the back have cat's eyes? Wonders idly what the game is here and settles back with a coke to watch, uncaring.

Spike sharks the pool table but won't play for cash; sinks shots with each ball until he finally loses (the game and his last scrap of sobriety), bowing out to join Xander leaning back against the bar. Mr cat-eyes cruises along then, slit pupils coldly assessing as they slide across the pair before he takes a position side on, motioning to the barman with a restrained gesture. 

“Vampire,” he says, voice a cultured purr and dripping haughty disdain. 

“What of it?” 

Ever the diplomat is Fangface, especially with a couple of bottles in him.

“I wonder, is all. What do you want here?”

“Information. Your people--”

“ _ We are  _ _ not _ _ people.” _

Spike holds his hands up, conciliatory. 

“No offense intended,”  _ smirk. _ “Your..  _ kind _ noticing anything of interest of late? Anything the council of slayers might wish to hear about?”

“No.”

“Bit quick for belief aren't you?”

The man’s fingers curl and splay slightly on the edge of the bartop, and in the shadowy light Xander can just make out the gleaming points of inhuman nails sinking effortlessly into the wood there. 

“We have nothing to say to  _ those _ . There were rules, damn them, an accepted way of things! If they think there won't be--” 

He cuts himself off with the air of having said too much, and there’s one of those moments when everything external  ..slows.. as three key pieces of knowledge rocket through Xander’s brain. First: Spike might not be playing possum on the inebriation tonight. Second: whatever this guy is, he's a twitch away from turning the bar edge into the required weapon to do away with this pest within arms reach beside him. Third: that pest just opening his idiot mouth to push a little harder is someone Xander  _ loves _ , dammit.  _ Family.  _

So he grabs him by the collar and wrenches back, and caught off guard and balance Xander’s strength is enough to fling him to the floor behind him and send a couple of stools clattering besides. Cat-man startles away from the commotion, a shard of wood torn from the bar raised in front of him - _ bloody knew it -  _ hissing under his breath at them before slowly backing away to the exit. As the door swings shut behind him Xander turns his eyes back warily. Spike's watching him from where he landed with his own look of steady feline appraisal, but says nothing as he takes his offered hand and rises fluidly to his feet. 

They leave in a hurry before anyone can gather complaints, and Spike waits until they reach the car before muttering grumpily across the roof.

“Can handle myself just fine in a drunken bar fight, Xander.”

A gush of rage washes over him suddenly, rise-crest-fall and out on one breath. 

“Fuck you,” he says back, “and try telling that to Buffy if she hears about tonight.”

“When. Fill her in the morning, no secrets. Just, make sure you reiterate you overreacted, right? ‘Less you want to be one member less on the home team.” 

At least he's got the sense to look abashed at the idea. And he's probably right, things would have come off fine without Xander’s interception. But stupid all the same to be taking unnecessary chances.

“Oh, and Xander? Love you too, man.” That cocky smirk’s back in place, and Xander reflects again on Spike's gift for turning his emotions on a dime to bounce from shamefaced to shit-eating grin in a second.

“Fuck you,” he says again, but there's something of the release of tension to shared mirth in it this time, and as he opens the car door he realises he's grinning too. 

.

Buffy comes home one day with an envelope addressed to a Mr Xander, c/o Capetown Slayers Women's Mixed Martial Arts Club. She tucks it on the end of the kitchen windowsill where it sits unmentioned for a few days before he starts to feel guilty and opens it alone. 

It's a woman he condolence-visited back in early December. Apologising for her rudeness,  _ I wasn't myself, the shock of it all…  _ He hadn't found her rude; withdrawn, perhaps, but weren't most people during that numb disbelief stage of fresh grief?  _ I wanted to come and thank you,  _ she writes,  _ for your gentleness and understanding. But I'm told you have gone home to your country. I hope you are doing well and have people there who care for you with the care and respect you showed for my daughter. Thank you.  _

He pockets it to be reread several times that week, then finally calls Giles.

“I want to go back to work,” he says, “but not like before. I know there's too much to do… We've got to do more, do different, do  _ better _ than the Watcher’s Council aimed for. We're not giving these girls and their families what they deserve and no, I don't mean more money. Can we… I think we need counselors on our council. Not like more watchers, but vanilla mortals who understand about humanity and grief. All these slayers were girls first,  _ are  _ girls, and I know we're training watchers for dealing with emergency aftermath but what's happening to the ones who quietly dropout?”

“I know we do,” says Giles, “come and see me.”

They brainstorm ideas from the simple to outlandish all afternoon, and by the end some things are starting to take form. Giles sends him on his way with a list of contact details for various counselors to set up meetings with, and the authority to make job offers.  _ And find one _ , he impresses,  _ you'd be willing to start seeing regularly. Someone needs to model it to the team. _

.

The apartment at the end of the hall gains a ‘ _ for lease’  _ sign; he pauses to read the phone number on the way in and out. A couple of days later Spike tosses him a copy of the application,  _ ‘if you wanted? Long as you’d still do our dishes that is,’  _ attached to references from Miss Jemima and one William Pratt. 

Who then proceeds to bitch and moan about how close Xander'll be as he helps Buffy maneuver in the most hideously upholstered second hand couch he dragged home from god-knows-where, _“just thought it matched your aesthetic so well”_ with a smug look _._ _“Prat!”_ says Xander in return, and almost gets a couch to the face before Buffy clears her throat pointedly. 

With his few possessions in place she looks around suddenly and her chin wobbles; “ _ come back for dinner? Please?” _

_ “I'll bring donuts,”  _ he smiles.

.

It takes him a month, in the end, to fill the roll of film. He collects the photos, still undecided, and flicks through until he gets to the last-first snap: two people in a messy kitchen, hands clasped together and a look on both of their faces that broadcasts the truth between them in single minded intensity:  _ I love you.  _ It makes him want to weep and hug them both. He buys more film and a beginner's photography book.

He writes on the back before leaving it in the selfsame kitchen after his next dinner visit,  
 _"_ \-  _ Thank you for feeding me.”  
_ (man cannot live by bread alone).  
She's at his door a minute later, saying nothing as she dives on him in one of those special Buffy hugs that's just short of rib-cracking. ‘ _ It's beautiful,’  _ she says, ‘ _ I never had--  _ (gulp),  _ no one…’  
_ ‘ _ I…’  _ He finds himself equally at a loss.  
__ ‘Thank you.’  They say together, and chuckle. 

 

 

 


	3. Willow

 

 

 

** % **

Buffy’s message relays it's way through on the day after she arrives; turns out geographical isolation is balanced by world wide web access.

_ \- we've got him. Will take care.  _

_ Should be me,  _ she thinks (and not without a touch of bitterness),  _ he's  _ _ my _ _ friend, and I owe him big time. Healing spells and soothing meditations, should've could've would've… where did I lose it? I'm so sorry, T. _

“Sorry,” says a rough looking bear of a man, “--don’t do shit. Come and give me a hand in the garden would you?”

“I'm sorry?” she squeaks with a startle.

“No repeats,” he grins, extending a huge hand, “Andre. And don't worry, I only pick up words spoken silently, ‘m not a mind reader. You're here for the week, right?”

“Um, yes. Clara invited me…’ 

“Aye, she'll be along when it's time. Come on.”

She picks beans and plants seeds alongside Andre for two days, trying to still her thoughts enough to keep them private. Day three he sets her to straightening books alone in the library, and she lets her mind wander with a sigh of relief. She'd been itching under his gaze, afraid of revealing ( _ what, exactly?) _ , impatient to get to business. All while knowing that this time is all part of it, foundations first yadda yadda.  _ You can't just wave a magic hand... _

Clara joins her that afternoon, tea tray held in delicate gloves, pearls in her hair and the sparkling youth of a mid high school girl.

“A little bird - or two and a half thousand little slayer birds - told me you'd be visiting eventually.”

“ _ Two and a half thousand?” _

“You knew, surely?”

“ _ Goddess.  _ Our count was up to 1740. I mean, I knew we were still missing a lot, but that many? I mean of course you're right, I'm sorry, I'm just surprised--”

“Didn't Andre tell you what we say? ‘Sorry don't do shyte’, though I do prefer a more polite version. But anyway, Miss Fixit, get to the real questions. What are you going to do next?”

“I--”

“You could roll back the whole year of course, let Spike make it right without unleashing this mess. Know you've got access to the power for it… though not quite that point along the vengeance-go-round right now are you? She's gone, the you that knew her is gone, and you've got voices either side where your branches used to be. 

So you want to know what the whispers mean, if the light ahead’s a train? Four months till Apocalypse Station and you're feeling for tracks? You get three questions my girl, one per cup,” - she passes a china cup over at this - “so think fast.” Clara settles back in her chair, brings her own cup to her nose, inhales deeply then sighs with pleasure. “Chop chop, it's no good cold.”

The Clara, clairvoyant: fey tales and (possible) futures. Willow had come knowing there'd be three chances to ask; didn’t expect them all at once,  _ but I am no slow wit!  _ Two distortions, one final truth - a question for each phase of maiden/mother/crone and all nicely bound by the ways of things. So:  _ think fast  _ indeed, sip slow, and don't ask her advice - she’s got her own sie agenda and Goddess knows what that means for the good of this dimension.

The tea tastes unfamiliar, honey-sweet and floral with a sort of tingly afterburn. Willow places her empty cup (no leaves, must be filtered) on the tray and asks her first question. 

“What's happening to the slayer essence?”

Clara smiles, answering in the casual tone of describing something well-known by all.

“Once upon a time… maybe another box was opened; and out flew murder, mayhem, and madness, to cross the view of humankind. They welcomed them inside, gave them food and a place to grow - no good trying to shove them back in that box, once done is done.”

She picks up the teapot and refills Willow’s cup. The tea’s stronger for the longer steep, a richer colour against the white china and some more familiar scents to it now; juniper perhaps, 

Clara adds milk to both their cups, flecked with warm nutmeg and vanilla seeds, then nods at it,  _ “Next.”  _ Her eyes glitter seductively as Willow picks it up, and there's a commanding authority to her tone as she adds, “ _ take your time.” _

Willow sips, running over the careful wording she'd decided on, but when the time comes to speak the words they've gone strange by repetition; fallen apart into vowel sounds via overuse. She says instead, “Am I doomed to turn dark?”

“Feels right and comfortable, doesn't it? There's a hole right through where your anchor tore, end to ends, and the pain leaking out. But you look deeper, dear, well you'll see a rootless tree’s a terrible thing in a storm.”

_ Feels  _ _ wrong _ _ ,  _ she wants to protest, but maybe that's not entirely true. More,  _ it should feel wrong. _ Everything's becoming muddled tonight. Another refill and now the tea too is dark, red-black and bottomless, blood-thick and syrupy-saccharine.  _ Intoxicating,  _ Willow thinks,  _ drink fast. _

She gulps down the brew in quick sips, but when she meets Clara’s eyes over the empty brim it feels like an age has passed - evening shadows have closed in unseen until the room is blackest night, and Clara’s face is crossed with deep wrinkles by the light of a candle centering the tea tray.

An owl screeches in the distance as she opens her mouth, and she waits out the echo of the sound before speaking carefully. 

“Is the light a train?”

Clara stares back silently, enigmatically. ( _ displeased? _ )

“Depends what you call it, doesn't it? Still a train if it's not on track? Names, dovey, call to us, they shape our selves. To name a thing is to mark it, to point to it, to empower it. She’s found one for the team; soon it'll be time to call the rest. Choose yours wisely, witch.”

She picks up a glass bottle and fills Willow’s cup once more, cool clear water. “Drink,” she says, “to truths.” As Willow does she leans in and whispers, “ _ Here's more of yours: there's a brighter world at the end of this tunnel, if you've got what it takes to push through,”  _ and when the cup is set down, “ _ now sleep.” _

  
  


Willow wakes slowly to find herself blinking up at the familiar stone ceiling above her own bed back in Scotland. Afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows across the room, and in the sound of birds and insects she has a sudden panic that six months have gone by to bring them to full summer. A head out the window to see snow still coating the fields reassuringly, then she grabs a pen to write down as much as she can recall before the dream fades any further. 

Pandora’s box of course for number one, and right up Dawn’s alley to research; though she'll have to make sure she doesn't twig to what it's about. The second, well, that was her turn, and not something that needs the group share; the last thing she needs is to give them more ammo. No doubt Spike's already sent the rumour around about her little blow out last month with no chance now of setting the story right without looking defensive.  
But the third… who's found one? Whose name? They must know. Xander, maybe?  _ Xander.  _ How long has it been? Is it too early to call Chicago? Who cares. 

Willow steps into the kitchen and Pedro jumps with a squeal before rushing over to clap her on the shoulders effusively,  _ oh we have missed you so! _

“What's gone so wrong in four days to merit this degree of welcome?”

“Four  _ weeks,  _ my friend, and only the missing of you.”

_ Stupid stupid fairy time. And why couldn't she have magicked her in too? Bet she just wanted a glimpse of Buffy.   
_ _"_ Everyone's ok then?”

“Yes, yes. We have a list of suggestions awaiting your approval, but they can keep waiting. You must be tired, I could bring you a tray up?”

“NO! I mean, no thank you, Pedro. I think I'm tea-ed out for the year. I just came in to use the phone…”

“Of course,” he nods, and pats her shoulder once more with a happy grin as he leaves her to it.   
  


Xander sounds… drained somehow, missing something, as much as he's clearly trying to reassure her. She offers several times to fly over (or have him here), but he turns her down softly but firmly.  _ Really, Will, I'm doing fine here. Just having a break.  _ There's a TV on in the background, and she worries over her head picture of him staring at it alone all day. 

“Is Buffy there?”

“Nope, just dropped in to HQ. I can put Spike on though?  _ Spike! _ ” he bellows, something muffling the phone, “Will’s on the phone.” 

“No!” - barely pulling it back to a yelp rather than the roar that'd slipped out earlier - “I'll call her there, take care!” She slams the phone down and closes her eyes, taking a moment to  _ calm down, this is ridiculous.  _ It hurts, though. She's doing  _ everything  _ right, proving efficient and reliable in every task at hand since Sunnydale. And so she's here in a lonely castle while Spike's buddy-buddy with Xander and Buffy’s probably bringing home pizza for three and they'll be laughing about old times and  _ remember when you two were engaged? Ha ha ha, silly Willow.  _

There's a lump in her throat now, so she postpones the call to HQ in favour of a nap; natural sleep needed perhaps to rein in the turmoil. 

  
  


** %  **

Giles 

Good information, all told. Now to tell it. First answer to Dawn as per Willow’s suggestion - she's proving quite adept these days, a certain steadiness and order to her research that he'd despaired of ever finding in the new class of watchers. Maybe it's time to move her up the payroll, formalise the position she's worked her way into as leader of the Rome base. Anyway, it seems fairly straightforward a message: they’ve opened Pandora’s box of slayers, and there's no undoing it now. 

The final truth… encouraging news, really. Finally a sign that there could be something at the end of this striving. Don't get too excited though; Clara could be speaking generations ahead with her idea of time. Names, then, focus on that. And numbers. Proper solid facts.

2,500 Willow said - they're most of the way there then, not so bad as he'd begun to fear. He'd dreamt one night of a screaming hoard of them, 20,000 strong at least, all packed before the open-air stage where he stood at a lectern, fumbling with a pair of opaque glasses that just _would not_ clean. Never mind the symbology guides - that one's plain to discern. 

And all bar 26 of them unidentified prior to being called - could almost wish Travers were still around, just to rub the magnitude of his failing in his face (though if he were then no doubt he'd be trying for the vice-a-versa). Heavy suspicion, though, that the numbers wouldn't come as quite a surprise.

It's made him wonder over those gaps in the old council record books - how many uncounted lives fell between the lines? Accepted procedure fuzzying up the handovers, with an odd willingness to allow vague reports in this one area while all else sternly regimented (he'd always assumed it incompetence; now sees it must be intentional design).  
Often a delay of course between the death of a slayer and the report of it coming in. If her watcher later submitted his final diary that did provide a firm closing date; but not all managed it, whether killed at their posts or simply vanishing via disenchantment and despair.  
Then came the wait with bated breath, the _whose lottery number is up this time?_ Watchers nerves mixing eagerness with prayers: _Oh, to see this marvellous potential fulfilled… (please, only let it wither as she ages out safely)_. Two weeks usual before they considered sending out Seekers, then that magic-adept crew pinging off false positives across the globe - usually several in succession - before they'd finally find their newest chosen one. But _were_ they false positives after all?  
How many vamps had been known to boast of killing a slayer where there wasn't one, or a young girl who ‘tasted like ambrosia and fought like a demon’?  
And there'd been the age-appropriate potentials of course, alluring without means of defense. If they'd had a few dozen a year drained right beneath their watcher’s noses, then just how many more were targeted and taken without even that meagre protection? 

Buffy might be wracked with a leader's guilt for how many girls they’ve lost since the activation, but put it in true perspective and a different picture starts to show. Just won't change how she feels of course; logic has no place in the heart.

 

 

 


	4. Given

 

 

** x **

As midnight ticks over to the nineteenth of January he reaches under the bed to retrieve his gift: a pair of beautifully crafted figure skates from the classy place downtown. They'll coordinate perfectly with the scythe: soft leather uppers in a rich scarlet, gleaming silver blades, chestnut brown laces. Be almost as deadly too, once she puts them on. 

Chucking the wrapped box on the bed next to her he downplays nervously as he flops back beside her. “Sorry, 's not a hand in this one. Apparently they're all out.” 

She unwraps the shoe box and eyes him curiously before lifting the lid. Then her eyes go big and wet as she whispers, “ _ Oh, Spike… _ ” 

Must have got it right then.

She strokes a finger reverently across one of the skates before lifting it to turn in her hands with a growing smile. 

“Seem to remember screwing this up for you another time. Try again?”

“Order of Taraka,” she laughs. “Should have heard how Giles talked those losers up.”

“Hey, meant to be the best in the business, they were. Not their fault you're just too good. Happy birthday, Slayer.”

She places the skate back in its box carefully to put her arms around him instead, squeezing him to her in that bone crushing way he likes best.  _ “Thank you.” _

 

He'd love to take her in strolling loops around the rink in Millennium Park, diamonds in her hair to glitter under the multitude of lights, a soft white fur across her shoulders and one delicate (looking) arm tucked in his. Wants to glide her before the crowd, the exquisite grace of her halting the people in their tracks as they bow back and sigh, the women wistfully and the men adoringly, the children dazzled by a real life princess, and all enraptured and captured and worshipping. 

But Millennium Park closes early, and speed skating’s against the rules. And besides, she's far too vibrant for that image to work.

 

So in the wee hours he walks with her across town to the small rink behind the theatre, producing a key traded for services rendered to the not-quite-human owner. Her face lights up at the smooth expanse of empty ice, and she tosses her coat on the snow and thumps down beside it to strap on the skates. Then with a bubbling giggle she takes off, streaking for the far side and back with zig-zaggy dashes. 

She flies in circles around the perimeter at breakneck speed, pausing only to strip down to her tank top as she warms up, and he lights a smoke as he watches, to her giggle of momentary amusement at the way it makes his breath steam even between inhales in the crisp winter air. 

Eventually her first rush of madcap glee fades, and she shakes out her fingers as she starts looping and crossing and spinning, concentrating now as she tests out the possibilities of her increased strength and skill on the long-missed terrain. 

Braking to a halt before him she frowns at the combat boots he'd insisted on sticking to. “Come play.”

He shakes his head. “Don't want me in your way, luv.”

“Are you  _ embarrassed?  _ You do know how to skate, right?”

“‘Course I do.”

She plants her hands on her hips and taps her toe impatiently. “But I'm pretty useless at it,” he calls back over his shoulder as he crosses to raid the small hire booth for a pair of skates. 

She only laughs again. “Good. ‘Bout time I got to teach you something.” 

He dumps his coat next to hers and lets her pull him out to the middle of the ice, where she eyes him appraisingly as they move in slow circles. Must be eighty years since he fumbled around a rink for Dru to throw hockey pucks at, but the motion comes back easily enough. 

“How about… if you can touch me, I'll take something off.”

“Anything?”

“Yep.”

He whips a hand out but she's already moving away, gleaming challenge in her eyes, so he chases, hitting the ice hard several times before he learns to keep low when grabbing for her and use the speed to best advantage. She starts doubling back and tagging him in passing, ducking away impossibly fast every time he tries to return the gesture, until finally he double bluffs her and manages to brush his fingertips across one hip. She spins to a halt and waits as he runs his eyes over her tank, bra, jeans. He lingers teasingly on the last item before telling her, “Hair tie.”

Smiling, she slips it free and skates in closer to let him run his fingers through her hair and fan it out across her back. Back in motion it swings around behind her in a glossy wave, catching the light to flash with its own highlights, diamonds unneeded. 

She looks up and around the lot, at the dark windows of the theatre and the factories on either side. Then tells him, “Throw me.” 

“Only if you want throwing into the fence,” he answers, with an apologetic grin.

“Don't be silly. You do it all the time.”

“Yeah, on our feet maybe.”

“I'll show you. Dance with me, Spike.”

And what can he do but acquiesce? 

She instructs targets and angles and heights, and lets him keep it simple at first - slow approaches to be lifted and tossed just over his head into a single flip and casual landing. No different from tossing her at demons, really; simpler, even, with clear paths guaranteed and no crisis for time. 

And altogether much too lacking in adrenaline to be anything but warm up for them, so before long he's bending slightly to he throw her ever higher as she picks up the pace. 

She has him add spins and turns to the throws, flips herself clear over him and uses him as a pivot to launch into dizzying circles. The excitement builds as they start pushing faster, higher; skirting the danger line deliciously and all else forgotten in the joy of motion. Finally she calls, “Go straight up. High as you can. To the stars.” He presses his lips together and she adds, “You can catch me. I’ll promise not to cut you.” Then she comes at him lightning fast, so he snatches her and throws instinctively as she tucks herself into a roll on the ascent. She straightens out at the top of the throw, silhouetting the dark sky with the gleaming gold of her for one perfect still moment as his heart tries to climb out of his chest and an insane fear hits that she's going to fly away up there. Then she falls, tucking in back first with bladed feet held out clear and not a flicker of worry that he'll fail to snatch her from the air before she breaks her neck on the ice and  _ how does she trust me like this?  _ And then he's on his ass again but she's safe in his arms and smiling at his wide eyes before stretching forward for a kiss. 

“Did you see the stars?” he asks.

“Yes.” (Though she can't have really, between the smog and cloud). She pokes him in the nose. “Get yourself some skates for next time.”

“Yes.”

**   
** **   
** **** +

He's made do with the tinny speakers on their small TV and the piles of CDs littering the shelf, but with Valentine's day approaching and a steadily growing shelf of unplayable vinyl she decides enough is enough and goes shopping. 

The Hi-Fi store's a bust, all flashing lights and flimsy remotes with too many buttons and ridiculous price tags. They've already broken enough fragile appliances in accidental bursts of play fighting, thank you very much. The phone book offers a vintage music store across town and there she finds it: a solid wood-cased thing with doors to protect the few knobs and a strong lid over the turntable. The twin speakers are waist high, wood boxed to match and with woven cloth fronts pilled along one edge where a cat must have routinely sharpened her claws. Perfect. With a silent apology to the neighbours she organises to have it delivered. 

And so music enters the apartment, to contagiously joyous excitement from one hyperactive vampire. The vinyl collection doubles, then triples, the range expanding to cross (almost) every genre. 

There's underlying rules to it, she notices. There's things soft or croony, lyrically poetical - music for Sunday afternoons and low volume; in lieu of reading, or while worshipping each other in bed. But then there's the _Music_ music - full volume, almost deafeningly loud; and this is for fighting, for sparing, for combating loneliness and brushing away fatigue. 

_ Music _ music’s all in the rhythm somewhere, matching to the fingers drumming on his thigh or the edge of the table. He picks it up and carries it with him once the song has played out, and sometimes she can recognise one in the pattern of fingertaps and whisper-sing a line and they'll smile at each other in recognition.

At the Friday night market a few blocks from home he jumps on yet another Buzzcocks album and she rolls her eyes and then asks him,  _ don't they all sound the same?  _ These two minutes bursts of messy sound and simple lyrics that make up much of the  _ Music.  _ He shakes his head, tut-tutting at her, pays for the album, and after a word to Xander leads her home alone with a smirk.

Never mind the lyrics, he tells her. Forget the sentiment; fuck technical expertise. Music’s what you  _ feel. _

He turns the volume right up with her sat in front of the speakers, burying her ears in a pillow held tight over her head. 

Let sound be muffled to wordlessness and close your eyes. Feel it.

He flips records, lifting and dropping the needle mid-track to bombard her with variant snatches of sound and the catch-your-breath stillness in between. 

The drumbeats she anticipated, but with everything muffled they're not as prominent as she expects. The rhythmic thud - thud - thud comes as often in the zingy tingling vibration of a guitar riff, the deep steady vibration of an electric bass, throbbing through the floor and racing up her spine.

When he loads the latest purchase he throws the pillow off and pulls her to her feet to stand with him, then leans back against one speaker as he presses her head to his chest. The thud of the bass line pulses beneath her cheek as the tingly melodic hum electrifies her skin, and she understands it fully now - with the music singing through his very bones he feels more alive beneath her fingers than she with her beating heart, transformed entirely from the statuesque stillness of his reality.

Then he brings his lips right up close to speak into her ear in a low rumble,  _ you’ve never been fucked on a speaker. _

He unzips her skirt and she kicks it off with her panties, then he turns them and lifts her to sit perched on the edge of the of it. He guides one of her hands back to grip the side of the speaker behind herself, then nudges her knees apart as he unbuckles his jeans. 

She reaches out to draw him in closer, but he takes her hand and guides back to herself instead, down between her legs where he moves it beneath his own to brush ever-so-lightly over her downy hair, tickling at the skin beneath. With his other hand he pops the button on his jeans and shoves the zip open to let his cock spring free, then wraps his hand around the base and strokes it in one long slow motion as his hand guides hers up and back down herself, closer this time so that her fingers glide across the wetness of her spread lips, everything tingling vibration from the music. She shivers as her nerve endings spark at the contact, and his lashes flutter against his cheeks as he draws in a ragged breath. He moves in just close enough to press his lips to her ear again, murmuring,  _ let me watch you enjoy this. _ Then slides her hand down once more before lifting his away to brace her knee. 

She could draw him back in with a crook of her finger, but said finger is still moving slowly over herself and her eyes are firmly captured by the naked longing in his as he rolls his fingers firmly around his cock and strokes it in another slow deliberate motion. So instead she mirrors the movement, gliding fingers down her slick folds and dipping to tease the tip of one inside while the heel of her palm nudges against her clit to send a hot quiver through her. He shudders full bodied then, lips parted slightly in a groan that's buried beneath the music, and she feels the power of her thrumming in waves as his eyes pour worship on her. So she arches back a little, shaking her hair free of her shoulder and giving in to the sensation with shameless indulgence as her humming fingers flutter and rub and slide until suddenly unexpectedly she's close, instinctive rhythm driving her as her hand moves faster, dropping her head back and closing her eyes, muscles clenching pulsingly on her fingers even as she's driven to go deeper, harder.

He growls as he surges for her, the battle roar of a voracious predator as his hand comes off her knee to wrap the small of her back and pull her forwards, nudging her fingers back up to her clit and driving himself inside in one smooth motion, hitting every spot at once as her needy muscles tighten on him like a vice. Her hand comes off the speaker to clutch at the back of his hair as he brings his mouth to her neck, blunt teeth grabbing a gentle grip on her skin. She shoves him harder against her throat as he thrusts inside of her until he bites down bruisingly hard and she screams his name in release as he spasms in his own. 

She leans back to rest her head against the wall as he gently releases her skin from his teeth and slides his lips across the tender skin, sending another throb of aftershock through her. And another, with nuzzling kiss-bites up her throat. A few seconds of silence between tracks gives way to something with a steadier thump-beat than the constant buzzing of earlier, and he kisses his way across her jaw then leans his forehead on hers as he adjusts his feet. He must have pressed his legs against the speaker front because now the feel of it comes more through him than up from her seat, into her from the place they're joined, and a laugh scampers through her mouth as she thinks,  _ buzzcocks!,  _ before it turns instead to moan as he moves in her, both sounds lost beneath the music but not to him - reflected in the sparkle of his eyes and a snatch of breath as if to grab that moan and devour it. She hooks her arms around his neck and lets him guide their movement, thrusting deep and slow with an unfair amount of self-control as everything in her is already rushing headlong towards a higher peak. So she pulls his face back to watch her lips and silently mouths a challenge to that self-control,  _ Fuck me, Spike.  _ Compression unravels him entirely, control thrown aside to take her violently until her universe shatters into ecstasy. 

While she catches her breath the music gives way to static crackle then the soft click as the needle lifts and returns. He chuckles softly against her shoulder, then reaches over for the album sleeve and hands it to her as he pulls away. “Knew you'd like it if you gave it a chance.” 

She fingers the still-tingling bruise on her neck as she gazes at the cover of  _ Love Bites _ and can't quite make her brain work to elucidate that it wasn't the album that she liked. But then, that was the lesson all along. 

  
  


** x **

Lorwickton, rest in peace. 

It's what they'd all silently dreaded - a coordinated strike back, vamps getting their shit together to even the scales against this slayer plague. Murder and mayhem indeed.  
A tiny Californian town (message to her, or simply the way it worked out?) obliterated overnight;  _ three hundred people _ dead or missing. The slayer from the neighbouring town reaches the place at sunrise, reporting in with shaky voice as he and Buff race cross-continent:  _ help!  _

Hit the ground running to position by nightfall; Robin’s team prompt this time at least, and Slayer's Council machine running smoothly to coordinate across the region:  
Patrol your areas. Safety first tonight. Do  not engage anything - we need to learn what's going on then take them out in a show of force. 

_ How many could they have turned?  _ And everyone turning to him of course (always wanted team recognition of his unique usefulness - but not like this). He shrugs, ‘ _ really don't know… never saw the like…’ _

Robin’s bunch plus the two of them makes more than twenty-five bodies apiece; too much for easily handling. So in the end with dusk swiftly approaching they build a pyre in the town hall   
  


and light it. 

  
  


clustered on the steps of the store across

we watch the smoke rise

girls joining hands here and there

white-knuckled grips promise retribution

_ ‘...it's because we're winning...last ditch attempt to scare us off...they know their days are numbered…’ _

 

(s’not though, don't need to be a mathematician to see

organise themselves like the slayers have 

and mankind could be gone in no time)

_ stupid berks. _

 

standing stiff at back in the shadows

she watches over it all

facade cracked 

by a stream of tears

wrap my arms around her from behind and rest my chin on her shoulder

\- let me watch over you.

she presses back 

_ what have we done?  _ she murmurs, 

almost too faint to catch,

_ is this my idea? _

  
  


** + **

With the sun finally slipping safely away she trails Spike in a slow sweep of the town borders for olfactory clues, stopping finally where they drove in that morning. 

They've been collating supposition and inference all day, reaching agreement there'd been at least a dozen sets of fangs involved in the middle of the night surprise attack. Definitely vamps, though most of the blood's been left to soak into the ground ( _ carpet, sheets…) _ . Must have ripped through in record time, most people caught unawares as they slept to have their necks torn open with a deadly efficiency. 

The message is written in yet more blood ( _ how derivative _ ) on the ‘ _ Lorwickton Welcome’s You _ ’ sign: 

LETS GET EVEN SLAYER BITCHES! 

“Could have used a comma,” she observes. 

“When did you turn grammar nazi?” He's trying for that oh so familiar side-cast wry look, but it goes awry at the wetness in his eyes.

“Just saying, no standards these days.” She tries to choke out a laugh, but it's a desperate gulp of a sound she has to swallow back down. She clutches his hand instead, and now they're the ones with the white-knuckled grasp; seeking solidity in the flux of tragedy.

He pauses as they cross the highway, staring into the distance as she tries not to fidget. 

“I'm betting south. Plenty of time to make the next town between finishing here and sunrise. You?”

She nods,  _ your call. _

“Time for work then.”

 

** x **

They pin Robin in charge of directing the last of the cleanup,  _ make it something mortal authorities can explain away,  _ then head out with half his team. A sweep of the first town finds nothing, so they drop the local girl home to her family with the rest as backup while he and Buffy continue south towards the nearest city, checking for activity every stop along the way. 

By 4am she's seething frustration as he pulls up across the road from a small club. He pats her on the knee.

“Stay right here missy, or you'll be dusting any leads with that look.”

Her lips press together tightly and she sniffs in a quick breath before nodding once. “ _ Five minutes.  _ Then I'm coming in swinging.” Her fingers shift slightly on the head of the scythe as she speaks, adjusting to that deceptively casual-looking light grip: deadly familiarity.

 

** + **

He's out in four, coming up to her side of the car and opening the door to lean against the roof as he talks quietly.

“Local demon family caught them on the way in tonight; things got territorial. They dusted six, the rest split and fled town. Definitely our crew though; was plenty a’ boasting before it all kicked off.” 

“ _ Goddammit!”  _ her voice comes out much louder than she'd intended, but she can't bring herself to care.  _ Screw anyone listening.  _ They'll never find them tonight now. “Gah,” she adds, but it's a tireder sound.

“With you on that. Come and grab a bite, yeah?” He nods at the club, “may as well refuel while we replan. Plus I think they might have some more tidbits of intell if we're patient. Just leave the obvious weaponry, it's friendlies only. Well, neutral at least.” 

She scrunches her face into one more expression of anger and frustration, then lets it go as she reaches to place the scythe on the back seat. Half out of the car she pauses as a vague image in her head coalesces.

“What species?”

“Krygawns. Brutal fighters, but they keep it to contests between families for the most part. Not bad blokes, all considered.

She reaches back over to grab the scythe again. 

“Come on then. I'd better thank them.”

 

** x **

She steps into the club and the place stills. Authority radiates from her bearing, the scythe and that honey mane making her instantly identifiable to the crowd of clued up strangers. Buffy Summers, in the flesh. 

The four krygawns are still at their table, and she heads straight for them with small precise steps. They group up as she comes, rising to stand shoulder to shoulder behind the table and chairs. Roughly humanoid, seven foot tall and built like a brick shithouse; they could almost be a sports team, and she head cheerleader come to congratulate. She places her scythe down on the table, eyes steady on the one who looks to be in charge, and they bore into each other for a moment before she speaks. 

“The council of slayers wishes to pay homage to the fighting skills of your family. We owe you a debt of thanks for the incidental repercussions of your actions tonight, and hope you will allow us to do you a service in kind should the opportunity present. And, um, let me pay for your drinks?”

Head demon dude eyes her steadily until the end, then a slow smile starts to spread.

“We had heard you lot were puritans. You will sit with us?”

He doesn't just mean the drinks, so she loosens her stance and puts on her own smile, valley-girl bright. “Thought you'd never ask.” She pulls over another chair as they retake theirs and plucks the scythe from the table to tuck down the side as she sits. “Spike?” she hollers over shoulder at him, “get the jugs in.”

  
  


She surreptitiously switches to coke after half a beer, but with the ice well broken no one’s ruffled.  _ Take one for the team?  _ she whispers when the next round arrives, and he grins back,  _ love to! _

The two youngest krygawns relate the events of the evening with gusto, replaying the skirmish as she claps her appreciation over a bowl of chips. Spurred to greater exuberance by the combination of enthusiastic audience + heavy alcohol consumption they end up smashing two chairs and roaring triumph at the pieces, himself right along with them. The bartender cringes tightly but doesn't look up to objecting; another wave of the council visa brings back his smile and a tray of shots. Things get a bit blurry after that. There was a card game, he and Dave (couldn't get his mouth round their names; redubbed them instead) paired up determined to put the youngsters in their places, but no one could quite work out whose turn it was so they gave it up and downed their shots together before relocating to the bar. Buffy held their table with Krygawn Senior, smiling indulgently whenever he caught her eye; he'd ruffled her hair up on either side at some point,  _ pompoms slayer!  _ and she'd laughed as she pushed him off. Later he'd seen her talking close and soft with Mr Krygawn, sadness on both their faces.

 

** + **

With dawn approaching she disentangles her drunken vampire from a final group hug with his new best buddies, their slurry faces showing deep disappointment to lose their small white-furred friend as their own sober adult nudges them towards leaving. Spike zigzags successfully out the door, then wobbles in place. 

“Car's that way,” she turns him and points, “or I could carry you?” 

He grabs her shoulders to steady himself, then resolutely pushes off again.

“Gerroff sslayer, ‘m fine. Ain’t being carried by home like a bleeding ..ah.. a lightweight.”

He collides softly with the boot and digs through his pockets until he finds the keys, pressing them into her hand with careful concentration. 

“Cheeky bint. Thinkin’ you'd better drive though.”

  
  


She backtracks to the somewhat dodgy-looking cheap hotel they'd passed on the way into town, gets them a room for the day and is just considering carrying him there from his sleeping tangle on the back seat of the car when he mumbles,  _ which way's it? _ and comes clambering out with his eyes still shut. So she gives him an arm to clutch instead and he clings to it blindly until his knees make contact with the bed, then lets go to flop spreadeagled across it diagonally. She locks the door, kicks off her shoes and calls Xander with their whereabouts. Squishing him over enough to make space on one edge, she lies back to study the ceiling and think. His arms come fumbling out to until they wrap around her middle, then he wriggles around to limpet onto her side and press his face into the curve of her waist with a deep purry sigh of satisfaction.  _ Love you, Slayer,  _ he mumbles into her skin,  _ ‘ish was clever. _

She thinks back to her discussion with Krygawn. There'd been… a moment there. A connection of shared sadness and regret when she'd explained exactly what had been done to Lorwickton. ‘ _ Can't stand humans,’  _ he'd said, ‘ _ but it's live and let live isn't it? They're sure to have families - of a kind - that'll miss ‘em. Just ain't right. We'll watch out for any sign of the rest of those yellow-bellies for you - this here's our town.’ _

Where's the nearest slayer stationed? She'd better contact her, make sure she keeps clear and understands the benefits of a truce. Hopefully there's no strong anti-demon prejudice in the girl's head; she’s been trying to insert some more sensibly balanced ideas into their training, but some of them still cling to xenophobic fears. And they'll need to spread descriptions of the vamps who ran, see if they can discover what triggered this, dust them… Maybe some kind of bounty offering to the demon populace? Could they do that?

She runs her fingers over Spike's hair, gently stroking her lethal lapkitty. The contact soothes her with its lulling tactile comfortiness until her hand becomes too heavy to continue, so lets it rest on the soft curls at the back of his neck.  _ Tomorrow, can do all that stuff tomorrow. Sleep first. _

 

** x **

The beeping of the microwave wakes him, then he feels her perch on the edge of the bed carrying with her the intermingled aromas of hot coffee and blood.  _ She hasn't?  _ He blinks and drags himself to sit, rubbing at his face as she holds out one of the twin mugs in her hands. 

“Don't worry, it's just blood. Dawn hasn't given me her patented vampire hangover cure recipe, the coffee’s mine”

“Thank fuck,” he says, smiling appreciation as he takes it.

“You going to be ok to fly?” she asks. 

“Course. Just gimme a minute to find my brain.”

“Think it drowned in the fourth round of whiskey,” she giggles, far too energetically to be fair. 

He skulls back the blood, handing over the cup and flopping back with a groan as she springs up to refill it.

“What can I say. I'm a team player.”

 

** + **

Arriving home just before sunrise they find a lamp on in the living room and the morning curtains closed. Neither of them needs the light here, but the soft yellow glow just makes everything look safe and warm and welcome-homey in a way she didn't realise she'd been missing. 

On the kitchen bench are two cups of cocoa prepped waiting for hot water. She adds coffee and cream to hers, cinnamon and marshmallows to his, and as she hands it to him motions the question with a glance to the closed bedroom door and back. Spike nods,  _ he's ok,  _ then cocks an ear for a few seconds before whispering,  _ “awake.” _

She pads over and leans her forehead against the door, speaking quietly, “Xander? Thank you.” She waits a minute, but there's no reply and she hadn't expected one.

 

** x **

Edgy and tense few weeks as everyone watches out for the remainder of the vamp gang, but with no further attacks and no sightings they eventually let it slip to the background as new concerns arise. 

There's a prickle under his skin all the same,  _ is something brewing?,  _ reflected in the corner of her eye as the pair of them silently patrol further afield each night, making enquiries where they can. Question first, stake later.

Less action in Chicago these days, but still the occasional grey hat making their home nearby if you know how to look. Rumor tips him to a knowledgeable type seen around the east side: likely to flee any perceived threat, unlikely to be at all cooperative. But might just spit something out in anger. Which he does, right before that idiot pup dumps him on his ass as he takes ‘watch my back’ to extremes.

_ “We have nothing to say to those. There were rules, damn them, an accepted way of things! If they think there won't be--”  _

He'd suspected the sentiment; would have felt the same himself once. Just ain't hardly fair to multiply your team by a factor of two thousand plus overnight. Repercussions in the air then; whether someone's planning, or something’s simply festering unspoken, it's bound to be ugly.

 

** + **

_ “You bleeding asshole!” _

She almost laughs out loud at the sound of those oh-so-familiar words now falling from Xander’s mouth mid-argument.  _ Should I point it out? No, save it. And I’d better break this up, he sounds angrier than usual…  _

She dumps her bag inside her door then heads over to Xander’s to see what's happened this time. They've taken to hanging out during the day when she's at HQ, but half the time it seems to be one endless petty argument until she arrives to lay down the time outs. 

Spike's turn as she opens the door, same old same old… 

_ “What the fuck was I thinking when I volunteered to come find you? Shoulda let you rot in that hotel room. Nothing but bloody moaning since and…” _

He tries to keep it rolling as she steps inside and crosses her arms, but soon trails off to stand sheepishly. She lifts her eyebrow,  _ “ _ You done?”

“ _ He broke another controller!”  _

Xander grabs the opening, waving the Playstation doohickey at her in evidence; sure enough it's cracked through the middle, one half flopping on its wiring. She sighs. Gaming frustration and super strength are proving an expensive combination; that's the fourth one in as many weeks.  _ Wonder if they come in bulk? _

_ “I'll bloody break the next one on your--” _

Enough. 

“CHILDREN!” She throws her arms up. “Pizza man’ll be here in ten. One of you go meet him downstairs, the other can toss that controller and come set the table.”

She turns and sweeps out.

 

 


	5. Counting

 

 

** x **

 

anniversary time.   
  


we decline  
but trickle in anyway  
along our disparate paths  
holding our various burdens  
fitting (perhaps) for a certain hole  
time must have flown downhill  
to bring us back  
together

 

By mutual agreement they take the car - twenty-one hundred miles across country in two days. Don't seem right to just pop over on a plane; needs to be a journey. Need this time to pre-ponder, prepare, prevaricate.

They arrive in the stillness of a few hours before dawn, pulling up at the concrete roadblock now barring vehicles from reaching the fence surrounding the crater proper. Xander cuts the engine but makes no move to get out, so Spike stretches out the kinks and lights a ciggie as Buffy wanders off ahead before trailing her steps alone. 

She rounds the roadblock and stops a little further down the road, studying the ground then looking left and right as she gauges distance. 

“There should be something here,” she says, with a glance his way.

He waits and watches as she paces a few more steps, scuffing a toe at the dust with her arms holding each other. 

“This is where we stopped,” she says, looking over at him, “and I climbed down off the roof… And there was--” she sobs, “this gaping, crumbling, devastating  _ hole _ . 

“And not that one,” she flaps a hand towards it, tries to say something else, then shakes her head and brings the back of one hand to her mouth while the other clutches her chest.

He moves in then, dropping his smoke to bring his arms around her, and she leans her side on him a little but holds her face back, waving her hand at him to wait. 

“Then _ ,”  _ she says in a half squeak, taking a breath before continuing. “Then,  _ the Sunnydale sign fell in,”  _ \- she giggles - “and I  _ knew _ you had to be there.”

She squishes into him properly at that, hot little face burrowing into his chest with a whimper. He squeezes back almost as hard, rocking her slowly with a lump in his throat. 

A car door closing pulls her head up to look around his shoulder, so he pats her on the back a final time and steps aside. Xander stands hesitant next to the car, and Spike hears his cackle of nervous laughter as Buffy approaches before turning his back to light another fag.

 

** + **

She moves up next to Xander and leans her head against his arm, and eventually he brings it around to give her a sideways-hug. 

“Do you want to wait here?” she asks, twisting to look up at his face.

“No. Maybe. I…” He sighs.

“Come with me?”

He nods, so she slides out from under his arm and tucks her hand in his instead, and they head for the crater, her other hand going out to Spike on the way. Ducking through a ragged hole in the fence they come up to the crater lip and sit on the edge with their legs swinging. 

It looks softer down there than it did twelve months ago, brighter and cleaner from the rains, rough edges smoothing and being buried as earth accumulates. Here and there are tufts of grasses and seedling desert plants; far below a few small pre-collapse trees have contorted themselves to stand defiantly upright in their new positions. She casts her eyes around for the cave she and Spike had spent that first day holed up in, but nothing looks familiar. 

“Everything's changed,” she says, pushing her lip out in a tiny sullen pout. 

“Yep.” They answer together, and Spike smirks into the distance as Xander rolls his eyes.

Silence falls for a while, and Spike fiddles with the gravel around them then picks out smooth reddish pebble. 

“To Anya,” he says, holding it up, “the most refreshingly forthright bird I ever had the pleasure of knowing.” 

He throws it far, far up and out into the crater, and they all cock their ears waiting but there's no clink as it lands.

“I wish… ” starts Xander

Buffy jerks to frown at him,  _ oh please don't…  _

“...that you are happy, and at peace, and loved, wherever you are. I-- I'm sorry, An.”

He ducks his head away and starts searching for a pebble of his own, and she relaxes down again. 

“To Anya,” she says, “thank you,” and her stone follows Xander’s.

“Amen,” says Spike, and she climbs to her feet to start searching for another stone.

They go on for a while, pebbles carrying names and memories, regrets and farewells. Tara, Chloe, Jenny, Ford….  _ Megan _ , says Xander very quietly, shaking his head when she looks at him in question.  
_ Mom. _ She holds that one to her for a minute before dropping it in to be echoed by the boys,  _ Joyce, thank you. _ Finally, she gets to, “Jesse. I'm sorry.”

Xander stands silent for a long time, then picks up a hand-sized rock and hurls it in. “I miss you, man.”

“To Jesse,” says Spike. “That bloody bitch deserved a lot worse than what she got.”

Xander gives him a steady look, then palms another pebble. “To Revello, and all the times it sheltered us.”

“Mr Gordo,” she adds with a sniff.

“To the back porch,” Spike murmurs, “and the stairs.”

“Your crypt,” she rejoins.

“My bloody TV.”

“My vintage action figures,” adds Xander.

“That diabolical red chair,” Spike again. 

A thousand items and places, all the little parts that make up  _ home _ . Eventually, they get to, “that slushy place in the mall,” and when no one replies she pulls a stake from her waistband and raises it. 

“To Sunnydale.” She sights carefully at a corner of masonry protruding above the rest before throwing the stake missile-like to lodge in a crack and stand upright. “May that be the last.”

 

They stand in silence for a while as the sky begins to lighten in the east and the earliest pre-dawn birds start chirping below. 

“I'm gonna head back to the car,” Spike says, one eye on the sky and patting her shoulder in passing. 

She watches him go, then pulls the watch from her pocket and holds it out to Xander. 

“Tweetie! I figured you'd left him down there.”

“No way. Probably not much use a watch anymore though.”

He shrugs, buckling it back on his wrist. 

“Thank you,” she says, “for being here.”

“Count on it.”

They share a smile that turns into a hug, then turn for the car.

 

Spike's standing alert behind it, listening hard; her ears prick in response and she quickens her step.  _ Someone's coming,  _ he mouths at her, then a moment later,  _ slowly, in a small car. _

They group up to wait, weapons concealed. And then set aside as a rented hatchback pulls up bearing a slightly rumpled Giles. 

“I changed my mind,” he says as he gets out, “I hope you don't mind?” 

“Of course not! We were just about to head down the road for breakfast. Do you want me to...?”

“No, no, you go on. I'll join after... Truckstop?”

“That’s the one,” she grins. “Best coffee in Sunnydale.”

He grimaces. “Well, I suppose it is these days. I'll have to retract my complaint regarding their spurious claims. See you soon.”

She nods, then gives him a cheery wave as they pull out; there's just something so forlorn about him standing there on his own.

 

_ Waffles _ , she thinks,  _ should be handed out in crisis zones as emergency treatment.  _ Her plate arrives with a stack of them smothered in maple syrup, fresh berries and peanut butter _ (always thought Dawn's PB concoctions were disgusting, but maybe she's onto something after all).  
_ “You know,” she says, stabbing another piece with her fork, “ _ That's _ what should have been in that Slayer Emergency Kit of Robin’s - a waffle maker, maple syrup and a jar of coffee.” She shrugs a shoulder at them across the table and continues talking around her mouthful, “Would have been far more useful.”

Spike's eyes are glued to her lips, heady in their focus as she swallows and flicks her tongue out to catch an imaginary drop of syrup on her top lip.  _ If we were alone…  _  He shakes his head as if to clear it, then looks her in the eyes. 

“Been thinking about that. Did that kit make it out of SunnyD?”

She frowns and looks at the ceiling, thinking. “Dunno. I don't remember it on the inventory list afterwards. Xander?”

“Ah… don't know, sorry. Ask Giles. Why?”

“Speak of the devil…” says Spike, nodding towards the parking lot as a hatchback pulls in and parks next to their SUV. Followed by a second rental car. “Is that?”

“Willow!” she smiles, jumping up.

 

** x **

He holds down the table while she runs out to greet, Xander following more sedately. The girls go straight to a quick hug and round of  _ ooh I've missed you! _ , then Willow motions like a stage magician as two more doors open to reveal Andrew and--  _ Dawnie!  _ (could hear that squee a mile off, vamp hearing or no). Xander waves a  _ Hey, all,  _ then leads the way back in to reclaim his seat next to Spike.

An unusually subdued Andrew takes the last slot on their side of the booth, the girls slipping in opposite as Giles pulls over a chair. Suddenly it's Scooby Meeting take #368, with menus standing in for books. And somehow he's at the table. 

“I, umm, wrote this speech,” starts Andrew, “I thought I should…” He trails off into silence, blinking at the table for a minute before whispering, “I can't.”

Dawn extends her hand across the table in a  _ give it  _ gesture, and after a minute he pulls a handful of tiny cue cards from his pocket and passes them over. She squares them on the table then begins reading silently, passing each on to Willow as she finishes it. Andrew keeps his eyes glued firmly down.

Spike finishes the final one and reaches over to clap him on the back as Buffy reads it.

“Andrew?” she says softly, holding the pile to her. “Could I keep it? Please?”

He meets her eyes briefly before his skitter away as he nods.

Buffy pulls out her wallet and tucks them safely inside before continuing. “Thank you. For everything, I mean. I don't know where I'd have been without you this year.”

She looks around the table, and he sees her eyes fill up, threatening to overflow as she continues, “ _ All _ of you. I can't believe you're all still here, helping me. But I can, because of course you are, you're the best friends-- family, anyone could ever wish for. And I've missed this, it's been so-- But I know you're all--” She shakes her head, “Urgh, I didn't write a speech.  _ Thank you.  _ I love you guys.” She catches his eye and grins as she adds, “I love you  _ all.” _

 

** + **

As the waitress removes their plates to be replaced by cups of coffee and tea -  _ do you have a nice loose leaf earl grey?  _ asks Andrew, back on form - Giles wipes his glasses and looks around with that  _ ‘let's get to business’  _ air she knows so well.

“Since we all seem to be here… I'd like to collate our thoughts on this pro--  _ information _ ,” he gives Buffy an acceding nod as he corrects himself, “and make sure we're all on the same page. Andrew?” 

As Andrew surges into action Giles leans back and sips at his tea, hiding an amused-but-pleased grin behind his cup. Andrew pulls out an impressively formal folder and begins passing out printed copies of a document, then flicks to a page in his own copy and holds it up ready to point something out.

She picks up hers, reads the title and holds it up facing him as he starts speaking, 

“So you'll see on page four you’ve-- what?”

“ _ Apocalypse 2004?” _

Everyone else is staring at him with a look of disbelief that must be mirrored on her face.

“Well, Clara said it! And I didn't think there was any point beating around the bush.”

She stares at him a moment longer, then shrugs, “Ok.”

“On, umm, page four,” he continues, with a slight tone down, “I've given everyone a flat copy of the text as reported by the wonderful Willow. Page five contains Dawn's summary of the Pandora myth - lovely work there - then we've got some speculation on  _ calling _ , both as activating slayers and as calling things by their true names. And at the back, several worksheet pages,” - he holds his up - “where you can all add notes as information arises. Questions?” 

She puts her hand up.

“Vampires. I think we should have a census.”

 

** x **

_ Murder, mayhem, and madness. _ Hardly describes slayers; well, unless you count Faith. And that wee one she took home from an LA asylum last month like adopting a feral cat (like to try and take your hand off if you think to pat her she is). And ok, maybe a few more girls for the madness side of the equation, mayhem in the whole slayer council machine, and ain't murder just slay from the other side of the fence? Still, don't feel quite right; that’d be too plainly spoken for one thing, given its providence. Gotta be something they're missing. 

_...gave them a place to grow… _

Talk about fucken grow, in sheer numbers on board at least. Predicted maybe a hundred-odd Potentials in the right age bracket when they made the decision for them: the handful left at Revello all that remained of the council-identified, stab a guess at several dozen more off the record, to be hunted down later - if ‘later’ came. Soon enough they all realised the folly in having relied on even a sceptics opinion of just how many that inept bureaucracy had been falling short by - Rupert’s seven-to-one ratio was correct all right, only it was backwards - one found to seven slipping through, so sayeth this final tally on the table. Two thousand five hundred that day then; at least six hundred down in the first year.  _ Surely it'll slow? How long until that hundred is correct?  _

They'd all watched anxiously as the first round of fourteen-year-old potentials hit calling age; when none picked up the power no one could quite figure out whether to be relieved or not.  _ Countdown.  _

Growing in other ways. What started as a ripple - drips to a deep pool - now enough to shake her equilibrium with each addition. Power's going somewhere all right, with each girl they lose. 

_ … no good trying to shove them back in… _

He shivers.

 

** + **

A census, as it turns out, isn't the easiest thing to magic up. Especially with their strongest witch on a loose self-probation and no one quite certain where the most immediate threat lies; feels like everyone's looking at their own teams and fearing the worst. The bulk of Giles’ spellcaster team are already pushing themselves to the limit in their efforts to locate the last handful of slayers, while his two most experienced witches have turned their attention towards refining the working for Stage 2: locating the thousands of younger potentials still out there. And, as recently confirmed, still being born.

Quite what they can do for those girls she doesn't know, but if they can at least be warned about the temptation they pose…  _ Arm them somehow? Train them too? Open a giant finishing school and post guards?  _ She shakes her head.  _ One problem at a time. First, analyse the threat _ . She has Giles put the potentials project on hold and redirect those resources towards finding vampires.

They come back with something much the same as their existing rough draft for locating potentials - take the framework, tilt the axis, voilà. A little more fine-tuning and they'll be ready to try it.

“So,” she tells Spike, “all going to plan, we should get some sort of color marking on a map of the entire continent, then we can point a team at each concentration. It won't show individuals across that scale, no matter how big-headed they are,” - she pokes her tongue out - “but it will help us find any remaining vamp hotspots. Capeesh?” 

She plays at casual excitement, but it's heavy in the air between them. Thousands of years in the making but the race is well underway now; vampires vs slayers, full steam to extinction and winner take all.

 

** x **

“We've lost one of the sixteen-year-olds.” 

_ Bound to happen.  _ The potentials might not twig at his senses like the slayers do, but once they hit calling age there's a certain…  _ allure,  _ he supposes, like the promise of caviar under the skin. Combine that with the reckless restlessness that they all seem to possess and of course some of them become meals. 

He won't ask who. Only six in the council files so far--  _ five _ . Birthdays in the first week of May putting them mere days outside of the activation spell’s reach, and close enough to the power for easy location. Two birthdays down, five to go until that magic 21st when they'd have been free of it all. Pictures her sitting there on the end of the line at HQ, names and faces on her desk.  _ Oh, pet…  _

“I'm so sorry, love.” 

“Should we…” 

_ Gather the ones they know of? Put the witches back on finding the rest? Try and tell ourselves it's natural loss? Seek vengeance?...  _

No right answers.

“Do you want me to come down?”

“No… no. I'll be home by dinner.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too.”

 

** + **

There’ve been several unsuccessful attempts already, so when Giles calls she doesn't get her hopes up. 

“ _ Think we've got it. Casting at midnight.” _

 

The magic vibrates the air as it climbs, a shaky jittery tremble that sets her teeth on edge. Spike's been calling it ‘the drunk toddler with a jackhammer spell’, and he's not far off. Today it reaches the same point as the last two attempts, then sure enough it skips a beat and stutters desperately for a moment as she closes her eyes in anticipation of the blinding flash that seems to accompany each failure. 

For a long second the air becomes dead still, power hanging there weightless as at the apex of a throw, then something suddenly flips, catches and roars into being, vibrating faster and faster and smoother and smoother until it takes on the quality of a chime reverberating through the air. 

She opens her eyes tentatively in time to see colour bloom out across the map; a glitterbomb of yellows and oranges, reds and ( _ black _ ?). It twinkles like an overlaid milky way of fire for half a breath… then fades almost as quickly as it came, the last star winking out over Nebraska as the circle of casters slumps in place and the chiming becomes only an echo. 

She meets Giles’ gaze across the circle, grinning wildly.

“It worked!”

He scratches his head, “Yes, well, it's certainly a promising--”

“Oh don't get  _ too _ excited now, I shan't recognise you.”

“ _ Shan’t?”  _ His own pleased grin has snuck out now, jostling for space with the Brow of Consternation at her language. “Yes, I suppose it did work, in a sense. I wonder why they weren't able to sustain it?”

“Well, next time have a camera ready. Video, even, so we can watch them sparkle. Can I… ?” she motions at the map in the middle of the circle as she moves around checking the spellcasters positions for comfort.

“Huh?” he blinks at her, probably trying to recall which new fandangled item a video camera is. “Yes, yes, go for it.”

“ _ Honestly, _ you destroy three high schools and everyone assumes you haven't got a brain.”

She steps carefully into the circle to stand on the three-metre-wide map and start marking it with a pen, quick crosses on each spot that she can be certain held a glimmering light. Giles joins her to add his own hurried dashes, and by the time they've exhausted their memory a minute later they’ve got at least fifty sites marked.  _ So many.  _ Yet only a small proportion of the hundreds they'd seen. She considers the western side, then circles off an area in Colorado without any marks nearby. “Did you see what was here?”

Giles stares at the circle she's drawn, then shakes his head, “No, sorry. What was it?”

“Sort of a blackish smudge. And no pretty lights. I'm thinking we should check it out pronto.” 

Giles looks around at the magic users, now cautiously sitting up and stretching as the junior watchers bring around cups of hot tea and chocolate chip cookies. “It'll be at least a week until we can have another attempt.”

“The Wyoming base isn't far from there; how many there this week?”

“They've got guests from China, Taotao’s group; I believe forty girls all together.”

“Perfect. Let's get all of them out there on a recon trip by afternoon. And we'll start hitting some of these sparkles tomorrow night; let’s see how many we can obliterate before the next spell attempt. Copy the map and forward it to the regional coordinators, but make it clear that each site could be heavily populated; full-size teams only. If the smaller groups want in on the action they can arrange their own mergers for a mission, as long as they hit eight fully trained members. This one,” - she jabs a hand down hard at a deeply written ‘x’ within a few hours drive of Chicago - “is mine.”

 

** x  **

There's almost an electric charge through the apartment as she steps in the door; a silent broadcast of ‘ _ Come! Come! The hunt is afoot!’.  _ He grabs her by the hips and she jumps up and throws her legs around his waist, locking her hands behind his neck to lean back and tell him, “It worked! And we need to go to Indianapolis.”

“That’s wonderful.” He kisses her on the nose. “Tonight?”

“Yeahuh. If you're ready?”

“Baby, I was born ready.”

She giggles at him and bounces down again, heading for the war-drobe as he grabs his keys. He meets her there, eyeing the selection of weapons that hang in the spare bedroom closet as he asks, “What are we after?”

“Vampires. Many vampires. Let's find out just how many make a flag that color.”

He grabs his favourite short axe and a handful of stakes from the bucket. “Come on then, Bouncy.”

 

Ten, it turns out, is how many vampires make this flag; assuming everyone is home when they kick down the door to an old warehouse just before sunrise. Half the blinkin idiots try to rush at them, going down in the first few seconds. The rest have more sense, ducking and running deeper into the building; he and Buffy split to cover a side each and follow them. Five minutes later the final layer of dust is sifting down as they rejoin at the back door. 

“That was fast,” she grins, then puts on a pout and teasing voice, “ _ Too  _ fast _. _ I'm all… unsatisfied.”

He smirks and leans in to trace a hand down her side. “Could stay here for the day? That door at the front would let us drive the truck right in”

“Eew, Spike. I am not spending the day in a scungy vamp nest. Hotel?”

He nods. “Hotel.”

 

Several hours later (and looking much more satisfied) she rolls in his lap to look up and stroke his face. He's expecting her to get back to practical business - they’ve yet to report back on the nest after all - but,  _ “Pretty vampire,” _ she croons, trailing a finger along his jaw. Shagged her brains out entirely then.  _ Whoops _ . He tilts his cheek into her gentle touch and reaches out to pet her in return, everything gone soft and fuzzy.

 

** + **

As dusk falls they stretch and yawn awake. She returns their room key and grabs a tourist map of the city, unfolding it across her lap in the car.

She studies it for a minute, then reads aloud, “ ‘The nation's third largest non-government cemetery; our city’s tenth most popular tourist attraction.’ Seriously, do people  _ want  _ to get eaten? Ooh! Pretty gate!”

“Sounds like us. Which way?”

They sweep two smaller cemeteries on the way (empty), a demonic dance club (harmless), and the bar they'd hit up for information the night before (one lonely  vampire \- dust cloud). 

Crown Hill Cemetery  _ is _ pretty, with endless miles of paths branching off every-which-way and impressive Gothic architecture scattered about. She takes Spike's hand as they walk and swings it to and fro before lifting it up to twirl beneath as he chuckles and pulls her in for a kiss.

“How many tailing?” he whispers in her ear.

“Just the two, I'm picking,” she whispers back, then giggles loudly and pulls away, skipping several steps ahead on her own. She loves this game, and knows he does too; the taunt and tease of her playing it up theatrically always drives him to hard arousal long before they've done with whatever they're hunting.  _ Not as if that's different from any other activity we do together though.  _

Tonight's stalking vamps refuse to be baited though, and fifteen minutes later with nary a glimpse of them she halts at a fork in the path to check her watch and sigh.

“We’d better head back if we're going to get home by breakfast.” She looks hard at the bushes on the left, then shouts, “You peeping toms!” before turning to follow Spike back to the exit.

 

** x **

Buffy drags her heels until she's a hundred yards behind, alone inside the cemetery gates as he unlocks the car and leans on the open door. “Hurry up, pet,” he calls with a laugh. 

“I'm  _ trying, _ ” she shouts back, waving her arms in exasperation. “It's enough to give a girl a complex.  _ You _ still think I'm tasty, don't you?”

“Right delicious, luv.” 

He hears her pleased voice go out to them at last as he leans into the car and tosses his coat on the back seat, and grins to himself as he starts turning back to watch her work.

“Oh  _ hello! _ I'd just about given up on you! You know what they--” 

Whatever pun she'd been about to make cuts off as she jerks in a short breath of impact

 

...beat...

 

and he's already flying towards her as his brain scrambles at catch up: still just the two vamps, out of the cover and running in to flank her from either side, 60 yards off as she stands frozen  
\- 50 yards -  
with a look of genuine horror on her face  
\- 40 yards -  
that they probably assume is their influence  
\- 30 yards -  
(split second ago he’d feared her silence was - but then he'd seen it written across her face: pain’s on the inside)

20 yards between the four of them when she suddenly barks a command at him,  _ Down! _ , snapping her arm out without turning to fling her stake off to the right as she springs for the vamp on the left bare-handed. His boots kick up a shower of gravel up as he slams on the brakes and flings himself backwards to land on his elbows; she smashes full-bodied onto her opponent at chest height, grabs him by the jaw and wrenches furiously to one side as he goes back beneath her impact, landing on her hands and knees in a cloud of dust as a second sifts down behind her.

He rolls to his feet slowly and approaches her side on, instincts screaming danger signs at him as she stares blankly at the ground between her hands. He croons a soft  _ hey, hey luv, _ kneeling down before bringing his hand out open palmed to ease over onto her shoulder. 

She trembles beneath it and looks up to meet his eyes, her own still too wide. Then reaches up to grab the hand on her shoulder and squeeze tight. 

“Are you alright?” she asks in a husky little whisper, and god if it doesn’t wrench his heart upside-down and backwards in his chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, Slayer, ‘m fine.” His own voice doesn't sound too solid.  _ Christ, what's happened? _

_ First things first. _ She's clinging tightly to his hand, so he moves a full circle around her to bring it across her shoulders and tuck her up against him. He keeps his voice soft, softer, “Let's go to the car, yeah?” She nods, so he tugs her up with him and leads her there.

 

 


	6. Smudges

 

** x **

She makes herself into a tight little ball on the passenger seat, so he drags his duster over and tucks it tightly around her until only her head shows before turning on the engine. Ten minutes down the road and the tears start running, but she wipes them furiously away and stares resolutely out of the window. 

“We need to call HQ,” she whispers - less than whispers really, but that's all he needs. He pulls over at the next phone booth, and before he can ask if she wants him to make the call she unfolds herself and climbs rigidly from the car to do it. 

He leans against the bonnet and crosses his arms against this peculiarly cold feeling as Giles’ direct line rings, same thoughts circling as always.  _ Not Vi. Not Willow’s girls. Not Faith. Not anyone we know. Not anyone we don't. False feeling brought on by lack of sleep.  _

“Wyoming,” she says when Giles answers, “Are--” Deep breath but she doesn't try again. 

( _ Wyoming?) _

“Have you felt something?” Giles asks, worry in his tone. “They're late to check in.”

“They're gone, Giles.”

She gently lowers the handset to dangle from its cable, then walks back to the car and climbs in. He picks up the dangling phone and speaks quietly, “Rupert?” 

“Spike,” he says, with a breath of relief that Spike doubts he's ever heard from the man in regards to himself. “She's with you?”

“Yeah…”

_ Never bloody get it, will he? _

“Wyoming?” he prompts at Giles’ silence.

“We - she’ll say  _ she  _ \- sent their team out yesterday on a recon mission to Colorado. Things sounded great this morning; now they've gone offline.”

“How many? 

“The local team of fourteen, with two trainee watchers and a very experienced witch,” he pauses, and Spike can hear the glasses come off before Giles continues in an exhausted tone, “Twenty-six over here from China, twelve watchers with them. Forty slayers total. Surely they can't…”

He watches Buffy, pressed tight against the passenger seat again.  _ Oh, luv…  _

“They are. What was the reconnaissance for?”

Giles fills him in, and Spike thinks for a minute before ordering, “Don't let anyone go after them, and recall anyone nearby; whole state of Colorado is out of bounds until you hear from us.”

“I wasn't planning on--” he retorts; familiar argument of hierarchy. Then sighs and abandons it to ask, “Stay with her today?”

Spike snorts derisively and starts in himself, “What the fuck do you think…” Shakes his head again, the jumble of frustration roiling about.  _ Not helpful. Calm down.  _ “Yeah. Course. I'll call in ‘f I get a chance.”

He hangs up and returns to the car slowly, sounding out possibilities in his head,  _ unfortunate, bad luck is all, couldn’t have predicted… it's not your sodding fault the world's so full of evil…  _

All wrong. He turns the engine on. “Colorado?”

“I can drive,” she says quietly, “if you want to go home.”

“Don’t be daft.”

She gives him a tiny thankful smile; he stretches over to cup her cheek and press a gentle kiss to her forehead before putting the car into gear and pulling out onto the road.

 

** + **

In Missouri Spike pulls over for gas, and she squeezes carefully from the car to cross through the early morning sun to the store. 

_When did he sleep?_ Safe to drive through the day thanks to the tint on their car, but he gets both twitchy and yawny behind the wheel as the sun heads towards its zenith. She's not comfortable with it either if she’s honest; the amount of sun that sneaks through the front windscreen puts her hackles up to make her equally tetchy and unsettled at the threat beaming down from above. 

She orders him into the darkness of the back seat, passes over the last of the blood from the glovebox cooler and adjusts the mirrors.

 

** x **

He does as he's told, hunkering down under his coat and falling into a half doze as the miles go by. Keeps expecting to hear her fingers start drumming against the edge of the wheel, but she's even stiller than her usual pre-fight state; an arrow notched, drawn, and aimed. Runs back over the (fight? Wrong word, really)  _ takedown _ of those last two vampires; whatever's in Colorado hasn't got a chance. 

As they cross into Colorado twilight falls, so he stretches and clambers over to the passenger seat. 

“What's the plan?” She's good, and charged up, but if forty girls went down in a blink… 

“I kill them.”

“ _ Yeah, _ ” he draws the word out, “but we can't just pull up and start throwing punches. Almost thinking we should be stopping at a gun store and knocking together some explosives.”

“No. Hands… Alone. I need you to stay clear. Just let me work.”

“Buffy…”  _ Christ, what's the right move here? _

She pulls over onto the shoulder and turns to look at him, and the far-away look fades to the back of her eyes at last. “I know what I'm doing. It's… I'm not sure I can explain it. But I'll be ok.”

He watches her closely for another beat, then nods. “Ok. Alright. But you'd better be, you daft thing.”

“I will. Take the wheel.” She jumps out and goes around as he climbs over and adjusts the seat, and they continue towards the blackzone she's scribbled on the map.

 

** + **

_ West, _ she tells him,  _ not where they checked in from… further, there's a… a cow place?  _ The image is vague, foggy snippets only, but known in the way a reoccurring dream would be. 

A small town named after a breed of cattle. Settlement, really; general store, feed supply, a gas station, small cluster of houses. Peaceful at a glance, if unnaturally quiet. They stop on the slight rise above it and she tries to match dream to reality until it becomes clear. 

“There was a… glamour? Something else here. The smudge, I guess. This isn't what they saw.” She chews her lip for a moment. “Follow?”

“Always do.”

 

** x **

she flies like a swallow  
slicing and swooping  
dipping and looping 

or maybe a darting fish  
scythe flashing by starlight  
trailing ruby drops bright

either way  
not earthbound  
as she reduces a small town worth of fledges  
to just so much dust on the breeze.

the last she pins  
(with her scythe, to the ground)  
waits while I question him  
before beheading him as silently as the rest 

lackeys, all of them  
left behind while the revival moves on

bad day.

 

** + **

Of course, they've missed the instigators again - taken their pick of the flock and moved out to spread the message:  _ this is war. _

‘Missionaries of the Sire’ if that fledge is to be believed; that name certainly isn't. Spike's scoff echoes her derision, but at least they have one now. Hints enough to write it under Lorwickton too. No use chasing them - if they’ve got the skills on team to shroud a whole town in setup then they're bound to be covering their trail. 

Call HQ, tell them to bring their own magic-adept. Drive home, try not to think.

 

** x **

An unspoken plea haunts the apartment next morning, little ball of Slayer under the covers as he makes the coffee. He sets it on the bedside table, then wriggles under the sheet to come face to face in her soft white world. 

They watch each other silently until she looks down and away, pouting as she whispers, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

“My hair's a mess.”

“I know.”

“Stupid knowing vampire.” 

She crawls out from under the blankets to sit against the headboard and sip at the coffee. Pulls her knees up to balance the mug on, then tilts her head back to the wall and closes her eyes with a sigh. The pout fades to weary resignation. 

“What should we do?” she asks, of herself as much as him. 

“I don’t know.”

She shoots him a grumpy look. “Stupid unknowing vampire.”

“I'm not here for my brains,” he chuckles, waggling his tongue at her tauntingly. Sex or sparring, they need some form of connected release to break the mood of the last 24 hours.

But she sets the coffee down and twists around to lie her head on his chest, still looking somber. “You're here for this,” she says, tapping his chest, “heart before brains.”

“Always, Slayer.” He runs his fingers through her hair, teasing out tangles gently. She sinks into it, weight settling against him properly as she lets herself relax, and he concentrates on the silky glide under his fingertips, the layers of heat and warmth from roots to tips. 

“Allies,” he ponders, “eyes and ears, at least. Few smaller beasties who'll be watching from a safe distance that might be convinced to speak up for the right incentive.”

“Speak up to you?”

“Maybe. Worth a try.”

She squeezes him. “Some of the girls have made friends too. The golden team have got a crinshaw tagging along occasionally. Robin’s been trying to complain about it.”

“He would.”

“I thought…”  _ it would get easier.  _ She shakes her head. “I'd better get dressed. War council's at one.”

 

** % **

Maddy’s not sure what she's supposed to do while she waits - or rather, she's not sure what she's doing here at all. Excepting that her and Giselle happen to live near the border to Colorado, and an official-sounding order scooped them from their beds to ship them off here in the middle of the night. 

They'd loitered uncomfortably around the hotel for several days, with the junior watcher who'd met them at the airport popping her head in morning and night to make sure they hadn't vanished. Until this morning, when she'd told them she'd be back shortly to take them to Slayer Headquarters to join a meeting with the head honchos.

Giselle’s a slayer, of course - ‘Giselle, Giselle, my graceful gazelle’ Maddy calls her - so they work for her, these watchers, this council; or so they keep saying. But she's just as out of place as Maddy herself right now, despite her title everywhere. 

And what is Maddy? Potential slayer, she's told, but not prospective (or even possible) as things stand. Unless they're wrong, and she wakes up tomorrow with the power to crush a can open barehanded as Giselle once did when they couldn't find the can opener and  _ really  _ wanted peaches. Maybe not so much opened as imploded-exploded, but the mess was worth it for the laughter. And lapping at the peachy syrup that trickled down Giselle’s beautiful collarbone… where was she? Ah yes,  _ potential.  _ Potential vampire dinner is what she is, superhero best friend or no. So why was she invited to the meeting? If it was just about leaving her alone in the hotel then surely there's a corner at HQ they could have tucked her in for safekeeping. 

“ _ Mads _ ,” Giselle whisper-hisses from the seat across from her in the foyer, then tilts her head towards the bathroom. They've been sitting here in silence since the watcher left them, surreptitiously watching the receptionist as he takes calls and makes notes, shaking their heads politely when he offered them drinks.

_ Are we allowed?  _ she wonders. Giselle looks ready to bolt though, and that surely would not be acceptable. So she nods and stands to follow her, and when the receptionist looks up Maddy points at the bathroom door and tries to smile apologetically as he waves them towards it.

Giselle pulls her into a cubicle and locks the door before hissing at her, “ _ I don’t know what to do when we go in there!” _

_ Neither do I!  _ she wants to say, but that won't help. “Look,” she says, “we'll just listen, I think. They probably just want to show us they're doing something about what happened up north, so we don't freak out and quit. Or so you don't. We won't have to contribute anything.”

“But what if they fire me? They might if they find out you've been coming out with me! Or want me to join a team? I don't want to move.”

Maddy laughs. “They're not going to fire you. Maybe  _ you  _ could fire  _ them _ , though, if they try to make us move.”

“What do you think she's like?”

No need to ask who; it's been the question on their minds since being told they were invited to this meeting with the big boss Buffy and her personal team. Maddy imagines her in some sort of sharply tailored business suit, strict ponytail, fine rimmed glasses and severe expression as she dashes off commands with a fountain pen. Probably high stiletto heels - they've heard she's short, and there'd be a certain authority in clicking around in them on the polished floors. The vampire would be at her feet, trembling with barely-restrained bloodlust in the room full of slayers as he gazes up at the one he's hopelessly bound to with a tortured expression. He'll be silent until she offers him a turn to speak, then quote some ancient wisdom with a funny accent full of thee’s and thou's. Then bow his head again.  _ I wonder if she chains him up at night?  _

“I'm sure she's lovely. Everyone says so.”

“Everyone who? The watchers are all scared of her, you've seen it.”

“Vi’s lovely, and she's supposed to be her friend. She was in Sunnydale with her.”

Giselle ponders that. “True... But what if the vampire eats me?”

“You scared of one little vamp now?” She raises her eyebrows. 

“No… no. I'm not scared of anything. Come on Mads, stop hiding in here.” She grabs Maddy’s hand and leads her back to their seats.

 

A woman steps from the lift and has a whispered conversation with the receptionist before looking their way. Another slayer, definitely - she has that same confident assurance and presence that Vi does.  _ Are they all like this? Except Giselle.  _ She longs to give her hand an encouraging squeeze, but they'd decided it would be best not to look too close.

“Maddy? Giselle?”

They nod together.

“Come on, we'd better find snacks first. Once they start droning they can go on for hours.” 

She leads them up and around until they come to a staff kitchen, then starts digging through the cupboards. “Coffee? Hot chocolate? Coke? Tea? I never know what to offer sorry.”

“Coffee? Please?” Maddy answers for both of them. 

“Yup. Milk? Sugar?” She starts digging through the draws, and from the back of bottom one pulls out a packet of cookies. “Ha! They're always trying to hide the chocolate ones.” 

She brings them to the table with their drinks, dunking one in her own mug as she asks, “So. Meeting. Looking forward to it? Because I'm not, so don't be shy. Rather show you the training room we have here, it is way cool. Maybe after?”

Maddy flushes slightly. “I'm not a slayer. ”

“So? Still fun. We have a ball pit and everything. Please, don't feel out of place as a potential here. I mean I know it's not as simple as saying that… argh, I'm no good at this.” She sighs. “You're the first potential who's come to check out HQ, so we wanna know what you think. What would be helpful. And how things are going in general. For both of you.” She smiles at them hopefully. 

“Giselle’s worried Buffy's going to bite her head off,” Maddy blurts.

Giselle glares at her while the woman looks surprised and...hurt, maybe? “Why… why would you think that?” 

Maddy blushes. “Not actually bite.”

“I am not!” protests Giselle, before continuing more quietly, “I just don't know what I'm supposed to say.”

The woman taps her lip for a moment. “What have you heard about her?”

“Well she's supposed to be impossibly good, isn't she? Like, she can do that chopstick-fly thing with her eyes shut. And super strict--oh I don't mean that in a bad way… I guess it's just… Maddy wants to patrol with me, but Vi says that Buffy says the potentials aren't allowed anywhere near, and we have to follow orders. Even though she's really good--”

“We got jumped once on the way home,” Maddy interjects, before Giselle can blabble out too much. “I staked one of the vamps.”

“Right...” she stretches the word out.

“All these people jump when you mention her name. It's kind of… intimidating. And I don't know what we’re supposed to do here.”

“Neither do I,” the woman murmurs, then smiles at them apologetically. “So if you have any ideas, please speak up. I'm Buffy, by the way.”

Maddy thinks she must be joking, at first - this tired-looking girl in jeans and sneakers cannot possibly be the mysterious overlord they've been so nervous to meet. But then a head pops in the door, does a little bobbing thing and addresses her by name to tell them that everyone's ready to go in the conference room. Maddy feels herself blushing hard as she looks down. 

“I'm sorry,” says Buffy, “I should have introduced myself as soon as I realised. But I couldn't resist hearing a candid opinion for once. Everyone's so guarded with me… Anyway, it was mean. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine!” they squeak out in unison, blushing harder. Maddy wants to apologise in turn,  _ what did we say about her?  _ but doesn't trust it to come out clearly. 

“Patrolling, huh?” Buffy asks her, and she does a weird awkward little nod in reply. Buffy waits a few beats as the silence stretches, then sighs and takes their mugs to the sink. “Come on, we'd better get in there. I promise no biting.”

Maddy’s mind spins as they follow her silently into the conference room, shooting each other quick accusatory looks behind her back. That was… nothing like they'd been lead to expect.

 

Everything turns out to be, well, kind of _mundane_. The vampire - Spike - sits at the table with a cup of tea, bickering in expletive-laden whispers with the man next to him until Mr Giles clears his throat pointedly and makes a start on discussing why they're all here. Reports are tabled, and everyone shuffles pens and papers as they throw suggestions back and forth. They talk about magic and friendly demons and _similar problems everywhere;_ about grey hats and white flags and that black smudge on the map. They ask Giselle if she's able to stay in Chicago for now; Maddy if she’d be willing to test a cloaking spell someone's put forward to hide potential. In England. They shake their heads, _we want to stay together._ Mr Giles tries to sway them with _would only be a brief trip_ and _how about Cleveland,_ _Giselle?_ But Giselle speaks at last to say, _No._ her voice firm and quietly dangerous. Buffy looks at them both but speaks to Mr Giles, _they can go together. Ok?_ she asks them, and they nod.

 

** + **

Giles hosts the after-meeting meeting in his own office, sinking down on the edge of his desk while Spike and Xander take chairs. She stands watching out of the window, arms folded into each other, as everyone takes a moment to let themselves drop the masks they've been holding. Twenty-odd present in the conference room for two hours equals a certain kind of twitchy weariness. Xander rubs beneath his eyepatch, and for a moment she worries he's going to do that thing again where he blocks his right eye with it instead, shutting everything out to retreat deep inside. But he smoothes it into place and sinks back on his chair, waiting. 

“What else?” Giles asks eventually. 

She picks up his glitter-filled paperweight, shaking it to set the silver sparkles swirling in the purple liquid. “You know they weren't ready for us. But I don't think they wanted us to detect them at all. They had  _ cows _ there, that they'd been feeding off. This is more than mindless killing.”

“They said they're calling war?”

“Yeah, but… it just felt off, somehow. Like a distraction technique.”  _ Or maybe I've got paranoid.  _

“Spike?” Giles asks.

“What she said,” he mumbles. Then off Giles’ steady look, gestures a frustrated hand as he snarks, “They don't bloody tell me, do they? Haven't got--”

“Just look for them,” she cuts in, to Giles. “Wicca gang, all the girls… we'll reach out where we can… let's keep them not ready.” She shakes the paperweight again, and peers through it at the room. “What's the story with Maddy?”

Giles relays what's on file: living on her own under a fake ID when they found her, no family contact, Giselle moved in - purportedly to protect her - after they met online. 

_ Am I supposed to monitor their relationship?  _ Can hardly ask Giles to. She'll talk to the London coven before the girls arrive. 

“And?” asks Giles, when she's been quiet for some time. 

“And nothing. Adjourned.”

 

 

 


	7. Sinking

 

 

 

** + **

Well, that was monumentally stupid.

 

“I  _ liked _ the boat,” she pouts, treading water as the last of it vanishes below. 

“Me too, Slayer.”

“Think we liked it too much.” She ponders sadly for a moment, then shouts, “Shit! The scythe’s still on it!”

“I'll get it. Don't go anywhere.”

She gives him her patented look of  _ not amused, Spike. _ “We're in the middle of the freakin lake.” 

But as he's about to duck under she stops him suddenly, “Spike!” 

He pauses. 

“Two minutes, then I'm ditching you for the nearest mall.” 

“I know, pet,” he answers gently. Silly thing.

 

He dives into the blackness after their slowly sinking boat, finding the scythe thankfully still strapped to the dashboard and waving goodbye the rest of the contents of the glovebox as he opens it to retrieve the flares. Bloody lucky his coat was still in the wash back home. Real shame to lose the boat though; only a cheap little runabout, but taking her out to dash around the choppy waves after patrol has been exhilarating. Can't even blame the supernatural on this one, only the unknown tosspot who left a half-smashed raft drifting below the surface to tear a jagged wound through their hull. And alright, perhaps excessive speed - coupled with a certain distractedness - may have had a hand in it too.

 

At the surface she greets him with a nervous smile, then insists on carrying the scythe herself in customary position on her back. Probably kicking herself for forgetting it earlier. 

“How far out do you think we are?” she asks. 

“Twenty miles, maybe?” At least. 

“Can we swim that before sunrise?”

“Easy.” If you don't freeze first. “Got the fireworks too; legal fun now ain't it?” He pulls the flares from his belt.

“That a rocket in your pocket?” 

He snickers. “All me, baby. Shove these somewhere?” 

She tucks two of the flares into her bra while he slams the third against his palm to fire, shooting into to the sky where the crimson fire of it burns a blinding contrast to black waves and moonless night. 

“Pretty! I feel like a professional boat-sinker now,” she says. They watch it drift downward for a minute until it blinks out in a wave to return the world to monochrome.

“You tell anyone we were coming out here tonight?”

“Nope.” She rubs her arms briskly.

“Neither. Best get moving then.” 

 

Ten miles later the shivering overtakes her selkie grace to slow them down, and when he halts she immediately balls herself up as much as possible. Her cheeks are a bloodless white over blue lips, but her eyes hold angry sparks as she mumbles about  _ stupid boat  _ and  _ stupid frigid lake  _ and  _ stupid cold cold cold. _

“Be more sensible for you to go ahead,” she shivers out, “borrow a boat. How long till dawn?”

“Don’t worry about it. Can always hide underwater.”

“You can?”

“Yep.” Seen it done, but whenever he's tried it himself an illogical atavistic fear of holding his breath has had him stupidly gasping in lungfuls of water that burn worse than a lack of oxygen would. Still, impossible to actually drown. “Don't do sensible. Hop on my back.”

Her eyes sag with relief. “I can keep swimming.”

“Never said you couldn't. But I always wanted to be a dolphin.”

She brings her hands up to touch his shoulders lightly, then throws them around his neck and squirms eagerly around to press into his back. “You’re warm! Hot!” 

Not good. What is it with this back-to-front wish fulfillment lately? 

 

Three hours later landfall still smells an awfully long ways away when an off-sound catches his attention. “Give’s a flare,” he tells her, and she fumbles awkwardly at her bra with one hand before he reaches around and grabs them himself. 

“Was doing,” she chitters.

“You know me, pet. Any excuse to cop a feel.”

“Pig.”

“Oink.”

 

The sound clarifies in the wake of the flare, and then a white torchlight light gleams in the distance. He lights the next flare and treads water, then grabs the scythe and holds the blade high to bounce back any light coming their way.

  
  


** % **

He hasn't let himself put a name to his actions as he drives to the marina and confirms their missing boat, dithers over the time, and finally sneaks down the rows until he locates an easily borrowable small runabout. Now though, spotting the supernatural shine of that curved blade held up in signal… self-explainable four a.m. burst of petty anarchy can be acknowledged as the worried search it was.

 

He lifts Buffy over the side - and she lets him. Curling on the floor with everything held tight and shaking she looks like a drowned kitten, paler than any vampire and dark hair plastered across her face. As he checks under the seats of his liberated boat for anything to wrap her in he throws his anger at Spike in a caustic string of insults, which the vampire ignores from a limp sprawl on his back in the middle of the floor. As Xander leans back from a fruitless search under the last seat, Spike's hand whips up to lock around the juncture of his neck and shoulder like a vice of frozen steel that makes  _ ‘arrogant, short-sighted asshole…’ _ fade away on his lips. An image flashes past of cold-numbed fingers snapping his neck as easily and accidentally as yet another PlayStation controller. Xander goes very, very still. Too easy to forget what Spike's capable of.

“Make her warm. I'll drive the bleeding boat.” Spike releases him and clambers up to man the outboard.

Xander strips to his boxers and peels Buffy from her sopping shirt and bra to replace with his warm dry layers as her icy hands cling to his skin everywhere they can, modesty abandoned in favour of survival. Her jeans are going to be far too difficult, so he wriggles his pants over top then scoops her up to sit on his lap on the floor. He forcibly overrides his body's cringing objection to wrap his arms around this stiff clingy iceberg as his own shivers start in, then risks a glance at where Spike's been watching silently while he divests Buffy of clothing.

Spike's eyes drag from Buffy to meet his, empty of the expected possessiveness but big and wide as they silently scream a question. 

“She'll be okay,” Xander answers, cold voiced to match his lap. “No thanks to you.” 

Some of the tension leaves Spike's eyes, but he doesn't look altogether reassured and Xander realises suddenly that this is something Mr Smug has zero knowledge of. He's tempted for a moment to let him fret-- but that's too masochistic for his taste. “She’ll be fine. Even a human would be. Just gotta warm up.” 

Spike closes his eyes and swallows, then nods at Xander. 

 

A few minutes later Spike cuts the engine to tie off to the wharf, and in the sudden quiet Buffy taps Xander on the chest then shiver-whispers, “It was me. I sank the boat.” Oh.  _ Oops _ . He looks to Spike, apology on his tongue, but Spike shakes his head. 

“Tonight, popsicle-boy, you can do no wrong.”

 

The car boot gives them a blanket and the engine a heater, and his own plummeting temperature starts to reverse despite the iceberg-slayer in his lap on the passenger seat. She shivers with intensity now, little diesel generator of vibrating muscles. Good. 

“Buff? How do you feel?” he asks. 

“Cold. Tired. Very.”

“What time did you lose the boat?” he asks Spike. 

“Eleven maybe?”

“ _ Six hours? _ ”

“I guess,” Spike intones. He looks the same as ever, creamy skin and soft pink lips a warm contrast for once to Buffy’s blue-white. But there's bone-deep exhaustion in the set of his shoulders and an unusual stiltedness to his hands on the wheel.

“Drive through,” Xander points. “Cocoa.”

 

The attendant looks alarmed at the state of them and starts in with questions, but Spike just shoves notes at her silently and takes the cups. He pulls over at the exit and Buffy sits up to put her shaking hands out for hers, but Xander pushes them aside for Spike to hold her cup instead. “Let him,” he tells her, “don’t wanna warm your hands up too fast. And just sip it.”

“I'm never,” -stutter- “going to be warm again.”

“Yeah you will,” says Spike. 

“Best. Cocoa. Ever.”

 

Buffy tries to object to being carried from the car but gives it up at Spike's, ‘ _ just let him have his hero moment.’ _

 

When her shivering finally subsides, Xander switches off the shower to nudge and cajole a yawning Buffy to her feet. He leaves her to work her way out of their combined wet clothing and into a towel while he riffles through the spare bedroom's emergency clothing supply for a pair of sweatpants and shirt. 

Spike hasn't moved from where he collapsed onto his stomach on the couch when they walked in, but when Buffy emerges from the bathroom a minute later he mumbles something unintelligible. She stumbles over and puts a hand on his cheek softly, murmuring back, and he falls quiet.

“Get to bed,” Xander says. “I'll stay.” 

She opens her mouth to say something, but it turns into a yawn. “Go on. Before I have to carry you again.” She nods meekly and drags herself off to bed.

 

** + **

She dreams of drifting alone in an endless ocean and wakes up panting to an icy touch on her cheek. He's still in his clothes from last night, though dried - if not fully warmed - by the aircon. 

“You’re still cold,” she tells him.

“You’re warm. Told you so.”

She looks down. “I'm sorry.”

“What for? Was great fun until it wasn't. I'll go defrost.” He vanishes into the bathroom before she can make more words. 

 

She dresses and wanders out to the living room, eyeing the wet patch on the sofa before following the smell of cooking into the kitchen. Xander leans against the cabinet opposite the stove, watching a big pot of something. She slips into the chair on the wall side of the table and smiles a hello at him.

“What time is it?”

“Lunchtime. Almost.” 

“Xander, I--”

“It's soup,” he cuts in, talking fast. “Well, something like soup. Maybe more like, ‘whatever was in the fridge’ stew. But it tastes great, just tested it.”

_ Why won't anyone let me apologise? _ She gives it up for now. “Can I do anything?”

“Sit. Only be a minute.”

She watches while he stirs and fetches bowls, but somewhere around the point that he closes the cupboard door she drifts off in staring at the wall. 

“Cheers,” says Xander, suddenly sitting across the table with his spoon held up.

She looks from his encouraging smile down to the bowl of soup-stew before her. Blink, and the hot tears prickle up and overflow before she can kick them away. There's a scrape as Xander’s chair skids back, then his arms wrap around her. She tries to hold it off, clenching fists, cheeks stinging; but a sniff turns into a great gulping sob and in that second she just  _ can't  _ anymore. She buries her face in his chest and tries to focus on keeping her clingy hands from squeezing him - hurting him - babbling an attempt to apologise through the sobbing lump of her throat. 

“ _ Spike!” _ shouts Xander, “ _ help!” _

Spike's hands take hers a moment later, and she squeezes onto them desperately, grabbing in a raspy breath before a louder burst of keening sobs escapes. 

Spike makes soft hush-hush sounds, Xander makes soft shh-shh sounds, and all the press of all these arms feels like they can hold her broken bits together for her until she's ready to reassemble them. So just for a moment, she lets them.

Eventually the sobs start to release their grip on her enough for her to shake in a deeper breath, then another. She relaxes her hands slowly and then the rest of her.

When she finally feels able to speak, it's a husky little murmur.  _ “I-- I'm sorry. I don't know…” _

“ _ Shh,” _ says Xander again, “it's important to let it out. Healthy. You should hear Dr. Evans rave about the importance of crying jags.”

“Not for me. I shouldn’t have-- I can’t afford to.”

Spike pushes her gently back onto her chair. “Leave that hat at the door, luv.”

“It feels like-- like lately every choice I make is a bad one.”

“Don't mean they're not the best ones.”

“Like the boat,” she insists, “I shouldn't have been so irresponsible.”

“Forget the stupid boat. Wasn’t even your fault really. ‘Sides, yesterday, wasn't it? It's a new day. Night. Or soon will be.”

“Keep moving forward,” says Xander. “Start with soup.”

She opens her mouth again, but Spike gives her that challenging level gaze while Xander rubs his hands together.  _ Bloody unfair tag team _ . “You two have got answers for everything, don't you?”

“Yep, so don't even try.”

“Alright.” Feels like too much hard work anyway. She picks up her spoon, and Spike bounces up to get his own bowl.

  
  


** x **

The momentary mindless fun she’d been chasing proves as irretrievable as the boat; Colorado a loss too far. Two weeks past and the shadow of her over-large pupils hasn’t left.

 

She stalks the night with ever-increasing determination, restlessly hunting, hunting. Not a vamp left in Chicago but him he reckons, so he picks up the slack; taking her against darkened walls and cemetery floors in wild frenzies of lust that leave him staggering and her (temporarily) calmed. Her teeth and fingers mark him in bloody gouges even as she surrenders; afterwards she bows her head before them, ashamed, but he forces her eyes to meet his and the deep satisfaction there:  _ vampire, remember? Bleed me, bite me, ever excite me.  _ He vamps out to lick the red from her fingers with roughened tongue, and she shudders as the blush races from her face to flame her elsewhere. Playing with fire, perhaps, but at least they have a safe word now.

  
  


** + **

She does her best to ignore what's happening;  _ de nile, de nile, carry me away _ . But a river in Africa only goes so far. 

Watches him sleep one morning, lips curved into a soft smile against her skin on sheets smeared with grass and mud. He might be dealing happily so far, but this can only get worse and she's becoming more than slightly concerned about where it's going. He'll never be able to refuse her anything, and his vulnerable submission beneath her hands is terrifying. He would love her in any form, she knows; would prostrate himself at the feet of her rage and tear into every challenge she offers. He’d open a vein to let her drain him, inscribe poetry on the terrible destruction of her until she wears him down beyond words. Watch her as she slices into the heart that flows from his eyes.  _ No one should have such power. Stop me, please, before I hurt you. Again. _

Call Willow, consider the potentials…? Sixty-two American slayers down, and how can she consign a bunch of children to take their place? Don't call Willow, but:  _ watch yourself.  _

 

He must read it in the hollow of her eyes that evening, pulling her down onto the couch to sit on his lap. She looks up and takes a breath to say - she's not sure what, exactly. But he shushes her before she can try. “I know, pet. I know. I'll not let you be lost.”

 

Her sleep falls away to brief catnaps in the early afternoons, and they a daily visit to dream space and time. Sineya hovers always in the distance, marking a beginning boundary to a vast arena of her sisters. Some she recognises - Vi, yesterday, drawing patterns in the sand that others walk in an endless spiral. Some she knows only from dream - reflections of those who came before, ancestral slayers lining the walls from Buffy to she who was first. Buffy contemplates looking back over her shoulder,  _ am I here at the end? _ But somehow never does, holding position with eyes roaming the crowd before her.

 

 


	8. Discourse

 

 

 

** + **

Faith holds a shopping bag on her hip with one hand, while her other swings a plastic bottle filled with something fizzy and red. 

“Drink?” she asks, extending it out.

“I'm gonna go with a  _ no _ ,” says Buffy, “that’s just not my style.”

“It's the otters stirring it, see? I wonder where they come from.”

Buffy looks closer, to find there are indeed a team of tiny otters frolicking in the bubbly liquid. “Huh. We don't get that in Chicago.”

“What have you bought?” Faith asks.

Buffy looks into her trolley, but everything's wrapped in newspaper. “I can't find the receipt,” she complains.

“It'll be in your hands; that's where I keep mine.”

Looking at her hands she finds a business card; one side blank, while the other is covered in numbers _. _

“Oh I know the  _ cost _ ,” she tells it, “but where's the inventory?” 

“I'd help you look, but I've got all this,” Faith motions at her bag. 

“Put it in my trolley.”

“It's too heavy for you right now, S; I’ve eaten too many raisins. But I think if you look in my other pocket there's a better question. Is that the weather page?”

“What'd you call me?”

“Buffy?”

She blinks, and Spike's watching her from the other end of their couch with his head cocked wonderingly. “ _ Earth to Buffy _ ?” he singsongs quietly, and she blinks again with a toss of her head to focus.

“Sorry,” she frowns, “daydreaming. Day- _ dreaming.” _

“And…?”

“I think I need to go and see Faith.”

 

** x **

As Buffy flies west for Faith in LA, he heads south to Louisiana, bag packed with bribes to attempt a meet-and-greet with the most influential of the kich-kich. Or perhaps just the only ones dumb enough to agree to hear him out.

Barely six inches at the withers, sleek-furred and scaly-tailed, the little scavenger demons pass as stray cats or giant rats on the odd occasion they're spotted going about their business in the dark. Rumoured to collect some kind of mystical energy from the demon bodies they consume, the kich-kich are widespread but generally unnoticed by mortal and supernatural species alike. He's never heard of anyone successfully negotiating a working relationship with them, but hey, first time for everything. 

Clem’s cousin leads him to a tree-filled cemetery on the edge of town, withdrawing with a wave as the pack of kich-kich resolve from the shadows. Spike presents them with the dried remains of a chintara demon (solemn nod), a bag of roasted cocoa beans (excited squeaking - everyone loves chocolate), and a promise of protection and further payment if they're willing to supply information. They eye him suspiciously, chirruping and whistling between themselves far too fast for him to catch, until eventually some decision is reached and the spokesperson (spokes-kich?) addresses him again. 

“That,” he points at Spike's chest, “give it to us.”

He looks down at where the kich-kich is pointing, and finds a long golden strand of Buffy’s hair on his shirt. Presuming they intend to eat it then no harm could come of handing it over, but there's something instinctively wrong about the idea of letting anyone take something of her from him. “No.” He leans back and shakes his head to clarify. 

“Then no.” The kich-kich narrows its eyes at him, challenging. 

“Still no.” He grinds his teeth in frustration.  _ Whole lot of planning and travelling to throw to waste. _ “What do you get from it, anyway?”

“Power. Energy. The same as any other creature needs to sustain itself. That thread is brimming with it, yet you would just throw it away?” When Spike doesn't immediately argue, the kich-kich adds, “We see things, on the sidelines.”

His answer's still no, but he's pretty certain hers wouldn't be. “Let me ask her.” 

The kich-kich squeak again, then announce that they'll accompany him to a phone.

 

“They're not going to, like, voodoo me or something?”

“Nope. They just eat it. Residual energy or some such.”

“So what's the problem? Give it to them. Tell them they can have my brush and the clump in the drain too.”

He hangs up and glares through the glass at the kich-kich sitting scattered around the phone booth, beady eyes all fixed on him. “That’s bloody creepy,” he tells them, shoving the door open with his foot. “But we've got a deal.” He squats to hold out the strand of Buffy’s hair carefully, and spokes-kich takes it with a solemn bow. “Any sign of these vamps, let us know. Information’s good then there's plenty more of these.”

 

** + **

Back at the diner for breakfast and her second meeting with Faith, Buffy puts down her empty coffee cup.  _ Maybe I should stop drinking this stuff?  _ After waving Faith off to her Wolfram & Hart archive raid last night she'd patrolled the city outskirts for anything both killable and unlikely to be missed. Several false starts before she'd finally hit on a group of new-to-town vamps and trailed them to a quiet alley where they'd gone down in mere seconds. She'd switched to stalking the underground tunnels next until it was time to come here, but nothing presented itself for her to vent her energy on and even now in the morning sun she felt titchy.

“Wow, B, out all night and you're still humming with it,” Faith says, sliding in opposite and slapping down her backpack. 

Buffy feels a blush trying to rise and picks up the salt shaker for distraction. “No one else has seen it. Well, except Spike, of course.”

“I'll bet he has. In fact I'll bet he's having the time of his life.”

She remembers the way he'd looked yesterday as they made their goodbyes, the unsaid  _ please, please be careful.  _

“No,” she looks down, “I mean, yeah, the, umm,”

“Shagging.”

She quirks a smile. “Yes, Faith,  _ shagging _ aplenty. But he's worried. And I'm… I don't want to hurt anyone.”

Faith snorts. “Can't get through life without that, Bubblegum. Anyway, Willow hasn't caught on?”

“No… she knows something’s up, but we've been throwing all our attention into tracking these vamps that keep popping up, and I haven't seen her in person since it got really bad. I'm kinda hoping to have something to bring to the table when the intervention hits.”

Faith laughs again, dryly ironic. “I don’t blame you, those friends of yours are right control freaks. So. There wasn't much there really, looks like we're just another breed of freak in their books. But… there was a prophecy.”

Faith mimics Buffy's ‘ _ blergh _ ’ face with one of her own. 

Buffy sighs. “Always is, isn't there?”

“So?” Faith shrugs, then holds up the backpack. “Everything's in here.”

“No trouble?”

She snorts. “Those pencil pushing idiots? Pu-lease. And Wes is going to keep an eye out for any reference to these missionary wankers; someone in the office of evil is bound to have shares. Now get gone, before Broodypants hears you're in town.”

“Thank you.” She smiles her gratitude as Faith rolls her eyes. Buffy shoulders the backpack and stands to leave.

“And, B?”

Buffy pauses.

“I've got another place, off the record. If you come to needing more than that boy can manage, hit me up, ok?” She waggles her tongue at Buffy and brings her hands up beckoningly. “Bring him along too, I wouldn't mind seeing that pretty face around.”

Ignoring the covering innuendo, she bends to pull Faith into a quick hug, eyes misting traitorously as she speaks, “Thank you.”

Faith whispers in her ear as she pulls away. “I'm not going anywhere, silly”

 

** % **

On her way down the hall she hollers out the chorus of the track currently on repeat in her head, arrival announcement for Dana’s benefit and probably to Lorne’s disgust. But he's beaming his ready smile when he lets her in and picks up the trailing tail to add the next lines. Cuts mid-verse and looks to Dana, perched on her corner of the couch, and she giggles, covering her mouth. Neither of them’s enticed a song from her yet, but giggling’s gotta be good. Lorne salutes her from his comfortable distance and she gives him a tiny wave as he heads out the door. That comfortable distance seems to be slowly getting closer, down to six feet or so without Dana tensing ready to dive behind the couch or throw herself into attack; he respects the ‘no touching’ rule to the utmost with his hands loose at his sides the whole time he's here. Reaches her other ways though, his voice soothing the turbulence inside the girl enough that Faith can leave her alone with him, if no one else. 

Hadn't had any notion of tying herself down like this. A couple of days after she'd sprung Dana from the nuthouse the northern slayer team arrived offering her asylum, but the girl took one look at them in the doorway and shot under Faith's bed, hiss-spitting threats like a feral cat.  _ There goes the idea that it's slayer sisterhood joining us then.  _ Must just recognise Faith as the girl who set her free - in a sense - and brings her food - of a purpose. The visitors had come prepared, tranqs and padded cuffs, but for some daft reason Faith found herself shoving them back and swinging the door close to block entry with her body, a strange long-forgotten type of anger rising in her. Had to will herself to calm down enough to send them politely on their way. 

Closing the door she'd leaned back against it, considering the now silent shadow under her bed, and let out a sigh. “I'm not up to parenting,” she told her, “or that psychobabble shit. But if you wanna stay there I damn well won't let anyone drag you out. Okay?” Silence, of course, but when she set two plates on the table that night the shadow unfolded and wriggled out to join her.

Didn't take her long to start pacing the small place, picking at the edges of everything and twitching with hype. So she'd started taking her out on nightly patrols, unleashing her at vamps and demons which the girl takes down with gleeful savagery. She speaks when she's fighting, but the words are never her own; battle cries and threats of a thousand past slayers (and once,  _ I’m Buffy, and you are?, _ in such perfect rendition that Faith jump-startled before cracking up with laughter). 

They had a close shave one night when a couple of drunks trailed and catcalled them on the way home, Faith barely managing to tackle Dana down in time to prevent a slaughter and catching herself one hell of a shiner in the process. Faith fumed at her all the way home; at the sudden vulnerability she hadn't realised they had, at the world of men who won't let them walk in peace. Never had she traded freedom for safety, even before she was called and able to fight back. Better a bruised body than letting them win. But the next night she dug through her wardrobe for something less sex, less feminine, things concealing and things warning. They go out later, to places quieter, in matching baggy shirts and combat boots; and while the clothes probably make no difference, the air of militant anger Faith projects surely does. Either way, they manage to avoid most unwanted attention. 

They can still get you though. The change in Buffy obvious, the jab of pity that hit Faith at the diner earlier sickeningly wrong. Or maybe that was just the taint of a night spent pillaging WR&H. Always comes away from the place with this off taste on her tongue, like curdled milk and mouldy bread. Ironic, really, when she looks at the mess of her own cluttered apartment in contrast to those gleaming offices. Probably some mouldy bread in the fridge here. 

“Maybe I should let you kill all the men we come across,” she grumps to Dana over breakfast. “Or at least the ones at Wolfram & Hart. We could rip through there in no time, claim those high-rise views for ourselves. But we'll give Lorne a pass. On account of his singing.”

Dana shakes her head though.

“No? Equality in homicide?”

“Lorne’s not a man,” Dana whispers, in a raspy little voice that's completely unfamiliar.

For a moment Faith's stunned. Then she stabs her spoon into her cereal and schools her face to casualness. “True. Just the human ones then. Maybe minus Wes, if he comes through with something for Buffy. You know, sooner or later they'll work out to depower her. Might be able to help you too. No more dreams.” 

Dana shakes her head vehemently. 

“No? I'd keep you safe. No one touches my girl without permission, no matter what.”

Dana shakes her head again, slower. “I need them,” she rasps, “they’re mine.” 

Well if we ain't miss talky this morning. Faith nods. “I hear ya.”

“Five by five,” whispers Dana, and they grin.

 

** x **

“‘And when all who are Chosen have been called, the oldest battle shall be decided.’”

“Huh?”

“The oldest…” Something stirs at that, like the memory of a movie played quietly in one room while he was conversing deeply in the next one.

“I say again, huh?”

“Wes has access to those big books, right? The ancient-text-at-your-fingertips things?”

“I think so…”

“Gimme his number. I think it's talking about the Old Ones.”

 

** + **

She opens the door to the apartment and pauses over the threshold, the breath-held tension of the place palpable in the air. He watches her from the couch, twirling his lighter between his fingers with a studied calm that completely fails to relax her. 

She tosses her head, puts on a smile and bustles in, asking, “What's up?” in the peppiest voice she can find. Stepping into the bedroom she dumps her bag and coat on the bed as he answers. 

“Wes called back."

She pauses a second time, looking down to smooth an invisible crease from the duvet with her back to the door. “Oh yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

   . . .

 

        . . .

 

_ (If we had a clock, it'd be shouting into this). _

  
  


With a huff she clips back out to the living room and joins him on the couch. “Right. So what'd he find?”

“Genesis, demon edition.” He reads from notes, “ ‘In the beginning, there was the earth. Then came the demons.’ ”

“I know this story. And it's lame-o.”

“Shush, you don't know this bit… ‘The demon species warred between themselves and against each other, endless battles which saw many great ones destroyed. Finally, two powerful but closely-matched demons rose to opposing positions and built armies from the earth to assault each other's forces. Miroter shaped colossal lizards and sent them for Maloker; Maloker shaped a great tentacled beast to devour them. Miroter created the battle horses; Maloker’s winged serpents destroyed them.  
Finally, Miroter created humans. He made them small, and weak, and unobtrusive, and sent them forth. And when they had filled every tiny corner of the earth, they began to harness its magic against Maloker, driving him back. Weakened, Maloker attacked the humans by mixing his blood with theirs, infecting them with his power and turning them to his side - but forever chaining himself to them in turn.  
Miroter, determined not to lose - yet equally determined not to be tied to the fate of his army - played a trick on an allied demon, stealing its spirit and banishing it to the centre of the earth. He presented the demon’s spirit to the humans, to be made into a weapon to fight Maloker’s people.’”

“And the shadow men forced it into a girl.”

“ ‘And the girl fought Maloker and banished him also to the centre of the earth. But the spirit inside the girl would not rest, so she turned on Miroter, and banished him too. And so with many other demons.  
When the girl was killed, the power dispersed to touch every girl who carried the potential to bear a portion of it, sparking to life in the strongest of each generation. The splintered spirit of the demon underground moved through them all, seeking…”

“Seeking…?”

“ ‘ … seeking always for the one that would host its full power, that it may return through her to claim its place as ruler.’ ”

“Like I said,” she whispers, “Lame-o.”

“Tea?” he asks, and the incongruity-yet-not, mixed with the way it just seemed to slip out unbidden, snaps the tension to so much powdered glass underfoot. 

“Why not?” she shrugs, quirks her lip, and follows him into the kitchen.

 

** x **

_ Tea? The bleeding hell was that?  _ Still, seems as right as anything. She sits and steeples her hands before her at the little two-seater kitchen table, gaze turning inwards as she integrates these new pieces. He crosses his arms before the stove as the kettle ticks, then simmers, then slowly builds its bubble towards the opening note of a whistle. Eyes her sideways with a brow lifted as the whistle grows towards ear piercing, but she's still assimilating so he breaks first, snatching it from the heat to fall quiet. 

He adds water to the teapot on the table and takes the seat opposite, steepling his own fingers in mirror pose to wait. Feels like they should have a clock on the wall somewhere; theatrical effect for the entr’acte. 

Don't need one to know when the tea’s ready though, so he pours for them both and spoons sugar into hers. When she finally speaks it's with more of a vehement exasperation than the wobble he'd expected, her voice hissing mutiny. God how he loves this woman.

“I’m not a bloody host. I've already rejected this when the shadowmen tried to shove it in. Fucking hell, what is with the continual assaults on bodily autonomy in my life?” 

His face must show something, because her voice softens slightly to add, “Not you, doofus.”

He slides her tea over. “That’s a big no thanks to born-again demonhood then? Wonder what the Missionaries are expecting from their cult leader, because I'm fairly sure it's not what they'd get.”

She sighs wearily. “This was never our war, was it? All of us - Slayers, Vampires, Watchers, humans… we're just the foot soldiers. Abandoned armies one hundred millennia post-conscription. And we never even realised, so caught up in fighting each other. If we want to end this, truly end it, I need to get down there and take out the monsters pulling the puppet strings. I am _so_ done being their pawn.”

 

** + **

Scooby gang, assemble: time to make that call. 

Willow sounds keyed up but relieved as she promises to grab the first flight over - holding her breath to be asked perhaps. Part of Buffy wants to apologise,  _ I’ll always want you here, Wills. _ But a deeper part narrows its eyes,  _ don’t think I’m inviting you here to ‘fix’ me. _ Spike slips down the hall to fill in Xander while she checks the tea supply for a Giles-summoning. 

It's the first time he's been to the apartment since they moved in a year ago, and he knocks precisely on time in a cleanly pressed jacket with a packet of shortbread under one arm. Once inside he stands in the middle of the living room looking about with polite interest. She considers doing the hostess-ey tour thing, but that would only exaggerate the awkward. Besides, there's only this room, the small kitchen, empty spare room, and bath; their own bedroom’s off-limits from stranger-scents. So she rolls her eyes at him and says, “Oh don't look so surprised, we don’t live like teenagers.”

“You never did.” He smiles sadly, then waves at the wall of bookshelves surrounding the front door on either side. “May I?” 

“Covet thy Slayer's books away. I'll put the kettle on.”

She joins him in gazing at the spines as she waits for the tea. “Do you approve?”

“The Stoker seems an odd choice.”

She grins. “Dawn sent it to us as a housewarming gift.”

“Ah. Of course.” He hands her the cookies and points at  _ Menageries _ by David Georgeston. “I recently collected a very fine copy of Georgeston’s  _ Devilrea _ ; you must bring it home with you next time you visit HQ. Eighteenth century, I believe; I'm sure Spike would be interested.”

“Thanks.” She puts her arms out at the same time he does, and they fumble into a light hug. His synthetic jacket still somehow manages to smell tweedy; he must have a secret stash of watcher-wear in the back of his wardrobe. She rests her cheek on his shoulder for a minute and lets it soak in as a wordless nostalgic fuzziness, refusing her brain's attempts to interrupt. When they draw apart there's a mutual soft sigh before he follows her to the kitchen and the necessary discussion.

 

“You can't just go charging in to a hole in the ground,” he says as she finishes. 

“I'm not. Research party tomorrow, see? But this is it, Giles. We can  _ do  _ something.”

“And you're really sure you're managing alright? It can't be easy.”

“ _ Yes, _ Giles. Until that last… event, it's been like an extra shot of espresso. Bitter, unwanted, espresso perhaps, but drinkable all the same. It's only this last month that it's started becoming difficult.”

“I posit,” he begins, drifting into that familiar vague intellectual gaze at the far wall, “that the power has been growing in each individual as she gains practice in utilising it, in the same way your own skills have matured. It's certainly not unusual for slayers to become more… intense, the longer they carry the title.”

“Hence the tradition of knocking them off at eighteen.”

He opens his mouth but she jumps in, studiously ignoring the topical baggage. “Anyway, so we've asked Wes to keep searching, and Willow to contact Clara again. Cards on the table here at 3pm tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you in person first.”

“Buffy, I…” 

“I know.” And she does, suddenly - sees the weight on him and how earnestly he'll bow for more if she only asks. She hugs him again as they stand. “Now go. Do your researchy-writey thing. I can see your fingers twitching.”

He laughs quietly but doesn't deny it, already pulling a notebook from his pocket with his keys.

 

They gather around the coffee table the following afternoon, herself and Spike on the floor in lieu of seats to give the other three adequate glowering room should they need it.

As Giles expositions their position from one end of the couch, Willow suddenly flashes through thinky-face to guilty-face.

“Will?” she asks, “Care to share with the class?”

She sets her donut down on the table to clasp her hands together as she answers. “What did you say it was called? Demon jail?”

“The Deeper Well,” Giles repeats.

“Clara may have-- I mean I didn't know it at the time but--” She takes a breath. “Her answer for me - the private question - she used those words.”

“I think we'd better hear all of it.”

“I've got it here,” she says, and pulls out her planner, flicking through to a well-thumbed page. “The tea, um, well it wasn't what I'd meant to say, but I asked her if I was ‘doomed to darkness’, and she said: ‘Feels right and comfortable, doesn't it? There's a hole right through where your anchor tore, end to ends, and the pain leaking out. But you look deeper, dear, well you'll see a rootless tree’s a terrible thing in a storm.’ So, yeah, ‘deeper...well.’”

Giles holds his hand out for the planner, then copies the text onto his notes. “It's not ‘ _ end to ends’, _ ” he tells them, “it's ‘ _ end to NZ’. _ There's reference to the Well having a guardian both at Ditch-End in the Cotswolds and in northern New Zealand.”

“Antipodes,” Spike says, looking impressed.

“What's so great about the Antipodes?” she asks, frowning. 

He shakes his head with that patronising smirk,  _ point scored! _ “Not  _ the  _ Antipodes. Antipode to each other. Hole goes right through.”

That is… something. “Where the anchor tore… What anchor?” she asks, “And how come no one’s noticed this giant tunnel? And isn't hell down there somewhere, hellmouths and all? And, like, a molten core of lava?”

“I would presume,” says Giles, “that ‘hell’ as we call it is somewhere alongside this tunnel. It could even be a side chamber. Perhaps the reason there only seem to be hellmouths around the Americas. And the well’s entrances aren't perfectly antipodean; the earth's core must be bypassed.”

“Wait wait,” Xander interjects, “you're telling me there's been two open monster pits sitting there all this time with just a guard posted at each one?”

“That does appear to be the case.”

“Living on swiss cheese,” she says. 

Everyone but Spike eyes each other sharply at that; Spike just looks confused. 

“They weren't  _ swiss _ cheese slices,” she adds.

“Moving on,” says Giles, “everything trapped down there is supposed to be dormant, as near to dead as the First Slayer--”

“Sineya.”

Giles ducks his head to her in apology, “ _ Sineya,  _ was able to render them. Using your scythe, Buffy, so I don't see how you hope to, ah, make them any deader.”

“She didn't have you guys. What's the deal with the guardians? Any relation to the one I met in a Sunnydale pyramid?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Xander asks, “If they're dormant, how come they can still create potentials? And vampires? And whatever else has grandparents down there.”

“I doubt anything does,” says Spike. “Least in the mystically-dependent sense. Us vampires are unique, aren't we? Half-breeds. Infected, not born, and still part-human. Only thing similar is…” he indicates Buffy. 

“I'm not  _ infected. _ And what about--” She cuts herself off; they've respected Angel's request not to tell anyone about Conner.

“Metaphor, pet.”

“‘The pain leaking out’,” says Willow, “the power must seep out somehow. Not enough to let them breach whatever keeps them in place, but enough to blend with a human spirit.”

“Rootless tree?” Buffy asks.

“I think that part  _ was  _ for me,” Willow says, but doesn't elaborate. 

“Anchor? What made the well in the first place?” Silence and shrugs. “Ok, well, which rabbit hole am I tumbling down?”

“The right-hand comfortable one, of course,” says Spike, and then, “Ditch-End,” at the same time as she says, “New Zealand? Oh.”

“North’s on your right if you're facing sunset,” he says, “demon standard.”

“I was guessing off sunrise.”

“Rather be looking towards the sun,” he smiles. “New Zealand it is.”

Xander rolls his eyes dutifully.

 

** x **

The ‘when’ of it creates the biggest argument - Buffy wants to jump straight on the next flight, Red hedges and hesitates, Xander tries to agree with both which of course pleases neither. 

 

He listens to the debate rage from the next room as the microwave spins, and a minute later Giles steps into the kitchen bearing an armload of empty pizza boxes. 

“Just thought I'd clear the table.”

“Good excuse,” Spike says, pointing to the bin for recycling. He slides open the top cupboard and points again.

Giles lifts down the bottle of scotch with an appreciative smile. “Glenfiddich.”

Spike shrugs. “She's been keeping it there just in case.” Giles’s face softens as his finger rubs over the label tenderly before Spike continues, “Though you really oughta switch to Jack Daniels.” 

“American swill,” Giles rejoins, without any real feeling.

“Does alright to keep Keith Richards rocking.”

“He's immortal.”

“Exactly.” 

He passes him a tumbler then extends his mug of warm blood; Giles tops it off with whiskey without a flicker. 

“I've got that volume of Georgeston’s in my bag; must make sure I leave it with you after this.”

“1700’s?”

“I believe so.”

Spike nods slowly. 

Xander’s voice drifts from the lounge, _ and if something happens with...  _ They sip their drinks. 

Spike says, “I picked up another copy of  _ Satanic Summonings  _ last week, secondhand bookseller at the night market had it on display. Woulda been a right shock for the goth kids when the muck demons oozed out to slime all over their makeup.”

Giles drops his head to laugh. “That it would've. We must try and track where they're coming from. Hardly dangerous, really, but you never know.”

“Fair play, I reckon. Anyone who's aiming to call up Beelzebub from a paperback deserves a bit of slime.”

“True.” He ponders the bottom of his glass. “Speaking of Richards. Stones are playing down at Soldier Field in a few months. Haven't seen them since ‘73.”

“London?”

“Yep. Was rather ticked off when they didn't do Sympathy for the Devil.”

“Was the encore at New York in ‘75. Clapton on guest guitar. Man, that was a night--” But maybe not one to get detailed on right now. 

“Anyway, would you be keen?”

Spike peers at him sideways sharply, withholding the automatic snarky retort. When he says nothing Giles busies his hands in refilling his cup. “Never--”

“You paying then?” he cuts in.

“I'll bill it as an expense. We'll, ah, attempt to analyse what type of demon he is.”

“Alright. But he's gotta be a durone.”

“Hasn't got the earlobes.”

“Coulda had them removed.”

Giles removes his notebook from a pocket and writes,  _ Rolling Stones concert. Inspect Keith Richards for lobe scarring.  _ He studies it for a moment and then adds,  _ Investigate effects of Jack Daniels. _

Spike nods firmly.

 

** + **

She writes their conclusion on the top of the paper:  Winter solstice (make that summer, since they’ll be in NZ) - turning point of the year and probably  _ not  _ the time to be in a mystical powerhouse at the centre of rotation. Plus, if they're guessing correct about the Missionaries/Maloker connection then it's sure to bring efforts to a head on that front. Twelve days. Minus two for timezone adjustment. 

“Have you spoken to Dawn?” Xander asks. 

“Not yet. I thought I'd call her after this…”

He nods. From the kitchen, there's a burst of deep rumbly laughter, and Willow lifts her eyebrows. 

“I feel like I'm supposed to be joining the card party for cigars,” says Xander. 

“No way,” says Buffy, “hold down the kiddy table with us. I am  _ so  _ overdue for some brainless chattering.”

“In that case, let's ditch the old folks. Willow, I hereby challenge thee to a round of mortal kombat at the Xander-pad.”

“He has snacks,” Buffy adds, “the  _ American  _ kind.”

“Reeses?” Willow asks as she stands. “I had the hugest craving last week but I couldn't get them anywhere.”

“Sure do.”

 

There's an ominous  _ crunch _ between her hands and Buffy freezes, as if by staying perfectly still the last split second can be rewound. Then the  _ ‘please reconnect your controller’  _ message flashes across her side of the screen and she gives it up, tentatively opening her hands around the crushed mangle of plastic and wires that once was a PlayStation controller. 

Xander forces a grin and weak laugh. “Just wait till Spike hears…” No one joins in. “I think we've still got a spare somewhere, hold up.”

He steps into his bedroom and Buffy slowly sets the pieces onto the coffee table. 

“Does this mean I win?” Willow asks.

“In the self-control stakes, at least,” Buffy murmurs. “I didn't mean to hurt--” Her voice wobbles precariously and she falls silent. 

“You didn't, see? You just-- you sacrificed the equipment to save your fightey-guy from the wasting I was about to dish out. Cheat.” 

Her smile’s eager, false-bright, and Buffy reconsiders the decision to come clean with her yesterday. Anything can be justified in Willow-logic. But this… she's been watching her hands all month, hot little shapers of death that they are, some private part thrilling in the increased strength of them while most of her fears what they could do.

“It frightens me sometimes,” she whispers. “It's like I'm walking around swinging a machine gun and someone keeps throwing gasoline on it.”

Willow considers the image. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want to… risk losing you any further, I guess. If I made sure you didn't have the opportunity to do something behind my back, then I wouldn't have to react to it, and I could pretend I was happy with things as they were.”

“I wouldn't--”

“I know you’d have wanted to help me, Will.  _ Do _ want to help me. And we'll talk about it. But what I really need right now is my friend, and if I won't give you the opportunity to be that then what is it that I’m worried about losing? Can we just... can you be that first? I miss you.” 

She sniffs at the end, and feels ridiculous for it until she looks back at Willow to see her looking just as embarrassedly emotional. 

Her voice is small as she answers, “Sometimes I miss me too.” Then looks at Buffy more firmly, “But I can. I promise, no covert fixing of the Buff.”

“Thank you. And I'm sorry. There's just so much…”

“It’s ok. You know what though? I  _ can _ fix this.” She picks up the broken controller and turns it over, assessing. 

“You can?”

“Yeahuh. I've been playing around with mystic enhancements on all the tech gear back at the castle. Reassembling something like this should be dead easy. And I'll make it stronger this time.”

 

By the time Xander comes back the controller's back in one piece, and the rematch is on. Buffy’s not sure whether Willow lets her win, or if something’s different about the responsiveness of the buttons, but she refuses to relinquish her new favourite controller and firmly beats him too. 

 

 


	9. Crux

 

 

***  
**

_ In the dark: _

“Stop fussing. She'll be here.” 

The shadow sounds calm, patient, but Miroter paces (figuratively, hasn't had a body to pace with in how many aeons?). Listening to Maloker through the walls as it rages, to the venom spewed at the subconscious refusal of this one spawn to pay heed to its ancestral whispering, has made Miroter wary.  _ Anarchistic _ , this Spike is. And anarchy must not be allowed to disrupt their careful plans. The shadow is being much too complacent. Conceited.

“He's just a vampire,” the shadow soothes.

“He's the bloody hope at the bottom of the box, isn't he?” he snaps back. “Get rid of him before this goes down or I promise you he'll shake it all sideways to shit; seems to be his speciality. You don’t realise how close you're playing this.”

“I’ve an option there, waiting to whisper in the little witch’s ear. Stop fussing.”

Be a shame to let her take the win that should by rights be its own, but sacrifices must be made. Plenty more to vent itself on once it's free, starting with this niggling nagging thorn in his side. It knows the shadow will come through on setting it free; they've got business to finish, and an age of impotent rage will overrule the common sense that would remind it of Miroter’s greater strength. With a huff (figurative, once again, and damn it all if it wouldn't almost give up the fighting just to be solid once more), Miroter subsides again into silent waiting.

 

** x **

Saying goodbye, Buffy passes the phone to him so Dawn can deal out round two of tongue-lashing for the radio silence of late. Already outta steam though, so all he gets is a grumbly mumble before she falls silent. 

“How's watcher junior?” he asks. 

Dawn sighs. “Moping. Toby’s gone; bunked off last week when an old friend came calling.”

He scoffs; partly for the predictable fickleness of  _ Toby, _ and partly for the moping. “Tell him he can do better.”

“How is she really?” Dawn asks quietly. 

“She's okay,” he tells her, “not just saying that for your sake.”

“Good. You do know I can show up anytime now, right? I got my own council card and clearance along with the promotion.” 

“Think you'd better test run them, then. When we get back from this?”

“I think maybe I might. I'll choose a hotel, though, I'm not staying with you guys again. And I might bring someone with me.”

She hangs up before he can answer, and Buffy shakes her head to forestall him calling straight back.  _ Someone who? _ he asks her. 

She shrugs,  _ guess we'll find out. _

 

They pile up books on the tables and eat off their laps on the couch and floor. Now that they know what they're looking at, the pattern of bulk vampire attacks all year is an oh-so-familiar headline: Worshipping Lackeys Gather! Attempting a Resurrection from the--  _ ‘stop calling it the bloody hellmouth,’  _ says Spike,  _ ‘I wasted that fair and square, case you've all forgot. F-en hurt, too.’ _

Xander suggests  _ Hell-stomach _ , Willow offers  _ shaft;  _ cue snickers and eye rolling.  _ ‘It's just a hole,’  _ Buffy snaps,  _ ‘a big boring hole that nothing else is getting out of. Quit the dick jokes and tell me how we're killing them. _ ’ 

_ ‘Sorry,’  _ whispers Xander after a minute,  _ ‘Guess I just can't hellpit.’ _

That one does make her laugh.

 

With an eager gleam Willow seizes the challenge of destroying the indestructible... but by day three she's only come up with dead ends, while the council magic team check in each evening from HQ with more of the same. 

Giles cautions lightly again about the likelihood of confusingly-named demons one, two, and slayer probably intending for them to do exactly this - walk right into their cell and somehow give them the opening they need. Buffy doesn't bother to look up from her book as she shoots him down; he nods and goes back to his own.  

 

** % **

Pens down for the night, and Buffy and Giles head out in search of food. Willow stretches the kinks from her hands then slouches back on the couch, grumpy with her own lack of progress. 

“Hear about Dawn?” Xander asks, “She’s been offered a place at Oxford next year.”

“I could have done that.” Can still remember how excited she’d been when she opened the letter. The visions of ancient halls of knowledge, wise professors, herself with a doctorate. Before she'd turned her back on it all to help Buffy. Too late now. “Sometimes I wonder where I'd be if I had.” 

From his desk in the far corner, Spike lets out a harsh bark of laughter, sharp and scornful. “In Glory's hell dimension, most likely,” he says. “Or maybe some cyberzombie dystopia. Take your pick.” He snaps his book down on the desk and swings his chair around to face them. “Still don't get it, do you? You don't  _ ‘help Buffy’ _ . She doesn't owe you a damn thing for what you do. For what you sacrifice. You  _ help save the world.  _ Where you happen to live, if you'll recall. And if you want to walk, go get that certificate, go for it. She'll wish you all the best, and smile, and take on your share - just like she does for the other six billion people walking around oblivious - even if it means a weaker team. Even if it kills her. And do you know why? Not because someone says it's her job.” He points a finger at her, jabbing with each word, “Because. She. Loves. You.” He swings his back to them again and picks up the book, movements jerky and forced.

Willow slowly drops the hand she'd raised in shield against that accusatory finger, something shrivelling inside. Xander picks up the remote and flicks the TV on without looking at her, and they sit in silence until the others return.

 

** + **

When Angel's voice comes down the line she  _ almost  _ hangs straight up again. There's a cowed, groveley tone to it that promises to take a spanner to the works of her tidy schedule. She did make him promise to come to her with problems… but does it have to be  _ now? _ And why is he calling and not Faith?  _ Sigh _ .

“What's up?” she asks, once the pleasantries have been given their due.

“Is Spike there?” 

Two feet from her ear, Spike's face slips into a narrow-eyed smirk of anticipation as he leans closer across the couch.

“Yes…” She rolls her eyes. “Lemme guess, you've done something embarrassing and you're hoping I can undo it without anyone having to know?”

“No, actually I was hoping to speak with him.”

Oh. “Oh...ok,” she says. 

Spike's smirk turns into a puzzled frown as he holds out a hand for the phone, his other arm coming out to pull her against him. “Let him have his embarrassing secret, Buff,” he says as she burrows into his side, “Go put the kettle on.” He waits out a few beats, then tells Angel, “You’re clear. So what's up?”

She listens as Angel fumbles through an explanation; when he gets to ‘ _ old one’ _ she bites her tongue on a snarl as Spike tightens his hold on her shoulders to stop her snatching for the phone. 

“...so the whole building's quarantined; I'm the only one here. But… I'm gonna need another pair of hands to move this thing, and it’ll have to be someone with their demon slot occupied just in case it opens up somehow. Oh, and Wes and Fred are MIA; soon as he'd finished interrogating Knox he grabbed her and left.”

“What about Harmony? Still working for you ain't she?”

“You want  _ Harmony  _ to be responsible for handling this thing?”

“Guess not. So go on then.”

“Go on what?”

“Ask. And be polite about it,” he adds sardonically.

Angel huffs and hmms before growling, “ _ Spike. _ Would you  _ please  _ help me transport this sarcophagus back to England?”

“See? Wasn’t so hard. Buffy?”

“We'll get back to you,” she says towards the phone.

“You heard her.” He hangs up.

 

_ Knew I should have hung up.  _ Their flight’s booked for tomorrow night. She leans her head back against his chest to stare at the ceiling, and he tips his back on the couch to do the same. “We should paint it a colour,” she muses. “It's always so… unhelpful. All bland and empty.”

“Get paint, Slayer, and I'll make you a mural.” He waves a hand across slowly. “‘Great Battle Plans Throughout History’, or summat, with maps and appendices and supplementary material.”

“I was thinking blue. A warm blue. Maybe some little puffy white clouds.”

He squints an eye up at it.

“We could both go?” she says.

“Could. Cancel NZ and head down through merry ol’?”

“But without Willow.”

“With Angel.”

She scoffs. “Is that a pro or a con?” 

“I dunno, that weighty forehead’s an impressive shield. Postpone NZ, come with me and get the lay of the land down there before we send for the team?”

“What'd he call the guardian again?”

“Drogyn?  _ Watchman. _ ”

Watchmen. Guardians. Slayers and potentials and vampires and whatever the hell the spawn of this latest sleeping beastie would be called. Christ, what a mess. And,  _ crap _ , when did Spike's slang work it's way into her vocabulary?

“We can't afford to wait. And we can't risk Angel's jack-in-the-box getting out on top of the rest, either. We stick to the plan. You help him, then follow us?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

** x **

Rearrangements made, they sequester themselves in bed for the sliver of time before his flight to LA. 

She turns pliant and submissive beneath his hands, all tender kisses and soft stroking, pulling him on top and wrapping her legs around his back to hold him close as they move together slowly. When her fingertips start kneading forcefully into his shoulder blades with her rising heat she removes them to lie on the pillow behind her head, wrists together. Her eyes hold him spellbound, clear glittering green orbs wide open right to the heart of her, and that heart proclaiming one thing in a language stronger than words. He falls still to fall into them and let the world cease existence. Then she blinks, and with legs still holding him tight inside her she whispers, 

_ \- take me, and take me with you. _

He brings a hand up to settle over her wrists, a gentle hand-holding touch against the nudging pulse of her. She tilts her head to the side, curving her neck towards him, and he bites with lips and a nibbling kiss of human teeth first. She arches up against him, and he slides his fangs forth and into the river of her, silent and smooth. The heat of her throbs past, swirls around, and for a time he lets it be, drifting with it. Then he begins to drink with long leisurely pulls, and the heat spreads down into him, vibrant sunshine and honey and everything that's  _ Buffy _ . 

Retracting fangs, he lathes his tongue over the marks and then nibbles up to her ear.  _ You taste exquisite, _ he rumbles to her,  _ laughter and life and love.  _ A quiver runs through her, muscles tightening around his cock as she lets out a little hitched whimper that presses her breasts up against him. He begins to move in her again, long slow thrusts that send building tremors through them both. He runs his free hand down her side, tracing the soft curve of her breast and dip of her waist, then slips it between them to press his fingertips against her clit. She stretches back to let him rub and flicker over the hard little nub, and he pulls up away from her ear to watch her face beneath him as the waves build until she comes with a mewly little cry.

 

** + **

_ He looks good,  _ she tells herself, trying to make her secret-worry-place accept what’s clear before her eyes as he pulls into the lot at the airport. Stronger now than she's ever seen him, sleek healthy muscles whispering of midnight sips of her - extra - slayer blood. More, though; a calm surety in his bearing, a confidence in him-self as half of the them-self _ , _ unwavering even in the muddle of this creeping cold war. 

His unshakeable faith in her sets her shaken - to a charged defiance against any comers who would question the righteousness of his being loved and loving so.

A few minutes left on the clock as he cuts the ignition, so she jumps to her knees on the passenger seat to stretch over and kiss him, deep and fierce. His hands pull her in ravenously, as though they’ve been separated for months rather than the ten-minute drive across town. He flicks the release lever to shove the back of the seat down, giving her space to climb on top; but she shoves him back against it as her hand tears open his jeans. When she pulls her lips from his and ducks through his grip his growl chases after her, so she growls back possessively as she closes her lips around his cock, sliding a hand down and around below to cup his ass and squeeze. He jerks in a jagged breath and slams his head back against the seat as thrusts into her mouth, and a thrill of pride jolts through her.

“ _ Fuck, Buffy,”  _ he groans, and pride transmogrifies into a jolt of something else. She edges her knees apart for his hand to find its way up her skirt and rub her through wet satin as she licks and squeezes and strokes. He keeps up a ragged litany of curse-filled adoration until his breath catches on a moan, and she takes him in deeper and harder as she grinds herself wantonly against his palm until he explodes in her mouth as she swallows around him and her own orgasm crashes through. 

She slides her lips off slowly with a final lick, then rests her forehead against his thigh for a moment before asking, “Time?”

“Uh…turn, turn the uh, the key.” 

She's too dazed to laugh, so she fumbles a hand up and flicks the key in the ignition. “ _ One minute _ ,” they read together, so she jumps up and straightens her skirt as he buttons his pants, then they tumble from the car to race into the terminal in a shrieking dash of giggles.

 

** x **

He brushes a thumb against the moistness at the corner of her mouth, and her reddened lips part to wrap around it teasingly before pressing together in a soft kiss on his thumb pad. She bows her head and he kisses the top of her hair, then steps back and bows theatrically with his invisible hat before turning for the gate. He tells himself to focus forwards, but at the last second he can't resist and turns back to smirk a wink at her and prompt one more effervescent giggle from those lips.

 

** % **

Spike stinks. He fills the lab with the reek of him, the rich blending of feminine sweat and blood and satin sheets, of saliva and precum and her cum and vanilla shampoo. Luscious and piquant and entirely overwhelming. And the worst part of it all - it seems entirely inadvertent. When Spike had first entered and seen Angel's nostrils flare sharply the boy had looked surprised, as though the effect it would have hadn't even crossed his mind. Then launched into his quick-talk yammering, politely glossing over the gap while Angel wrestled himself past the initial slap of it.

Now Spike crosses his arms, considering the stone sarcophagus with that insouciant lift of his brow before asking, “How’re we moving it then?”

“I've found a larkraw demon to pilot the jet. Armoured delivery truck in the basement to take us there.”

“Come on then. Got places to be.”

 

** + **

She squeaks when she walks in to find a kich-kich scrabbling at the couch like a deranged gopher, and chides herself for being too distracted to have heard it before opening the door. Recovering, she rebukes the attack on the couch before querying the creature both its reason for being here and its ability to get through her supposedly safely locked door. It chitters towards the cat flap. 

Five minutes later, she searches her hair and shoulders for one of those annoying loose strands that are never there when she wants one, then rips out a couple of attached ones instead to get the creature paid and gone. Mouth tight on its prize, it dashes at the door and blinks straight through the solid wood just to the left of the flap. She takes  _ ‘secure the cat flap’  _ back off her mental list of tasks, then presses the heels of her hands into her eyes for a moment before picking up the phone. 

“Giles. Looks like our lost Missionaries are converging in London for solstice.”

Sigh. “Of course they are.” 

“We’re going to have to split-team and cover both sides.”

And sigh again. “Of course we are.”

“Conspiracy from the PTB to bankrupt us with plane tickets?”

“I booked third class.”

“Cheapskate.”

 

Giles and Xander to London tomorrow then, with Willow’s UK team to join them there plus anyone else willing and able. She'd prefer Faith as lead dog for the slayers, but doesn't want to pull her from watching Evil Inc. before Angel gets back. She asks her to confiscate the jet and join them as soon as Angel returns with it; Faith purrs with anticipation. 

Spike's phone goes straight to voicemail, so she leaves a message -  _ Missionaries headed thataway. Xander and Giles at 7:30pm tomorrow. Watch my back. It's party time.  _

That leaves Willow and herself to slip off alone to NZ tomorrow, with a sense of resigned inevitability.

 

Once everyone's left for their respective beds she slips the scythe onto her back and herself out the door for patrol. This close to the longest day the night air feels balmy, even tropical, pavements and stone buildings reflecting back the heat from the day to her bare arms and legs. Whether the lack of action tonight is down to the weather or her prior efficiency she can't be certain, but it's oddly calming to be left alone this night. Wishes he were here to be alone with, of course, but good all the same. 

She turns away from her usual route through the city centre, breaking into an easy loping jog that takes her out to the long strip of forest parks and golf courses along the river. The simple repetitive movement of running settles the near-constant itch under her skin, so she picks up the pace and carries on, mile after mile as the moon crosses the sky and the night grows quieter. Lately it's felt like all she's done is kill and cry, shove it all down and let some claw out in bed (or not in bed, as the case may be), apologise and take apologies and fumble hopelessly. Whatever happened to her icy stoicism? Worn down, perhaps, burnt away; other parts softened and gentled beneath his tenderness. Underneath...? 

Thud thud of feet on the dry earth, thud thud and a coyote yipping in the distance… 

running

now 

not from

or to

but with. 

 

Thinking,

\- here you are, Buffy. 

\- here I am. 

 

\- and hello coyote, it's nice to meet you.

  
  


** + **

She gets home just after dawn, slick with sweat and grimy with dust. But good, ready,  _ together _ , in a way she hadn't quite managed to get back to since the slaughter in Colorado. She scrubs herself clean in the shower, then digs through the kitchen for breakfast ingredients. A bowl of blueberry oatmeal and two coffees later, her packed bag's waiting by the door, and she's almost twiddling her thumbs waiting for everyone else. She rereads the information from Wes, the snippets of speculation from Giles, the apocalypse file of Andrew’s, filling in the blanks on the last and rolling her eyes at Clara’s words.  _ Brighter world at the end of this tunnel indeed. You straight-tongued snake, of course it's brighter at the end when it's a  _ _ literal _ _ tunnel. _

That bit about names, though. More Slayer in her now perhaps, but not by choice. Wouldn't choose slayerless-ness either; wouldn't be herself, anymore. She'd asked Spike and he'd said,  _ you’re Buffy, luv,  _ with duh-face firmly in place. She'll go with that, if there's introductions to be made.

 

Xander and Willow join from down the hall, Giles arrives a few minutes later, and she pours a round of coffee. 

“I've had an idea,” says Willow, standing up to address everyone. Her face is set in that worryingly familiar  _ ‘now you all listen to me’  _ look that she gets when she's preparing to overrule objections. 

Buffy answers cautiously, “Let's hear it then.”

“So. Maloker has this mystical link, right, to all the vampires. He's the source of their demon power. I think we could use that link to take him out - take a vampire down there and use it like a voodoo doll. And... I think if we aim it right, the effect could be rippled out to them  _ all _ \- take out every single vampire and rid the world forever. I know it'd be a sacrifice,” - she  _ almost  _ looks at Buffy before her eyes jump away again - “but think of everyone we'd--”

“No.” She's heard enough. Had enough. The image of leading a bound vampire down into the dark leeching poisonously across her mental space. Gagged, of course, so they could ignore his pleas. Or hers. They could grab one from the nearest cemetery, some snarling feral thing she'd stake without a second’s thought, something not someone, no reminders of Harmony and Angel and Lawson and all the rest.

“What?”

“No. I won't consider it. And neither,” she looks around at them all, deadly calm on her face, “will any of you.”

“Don't be hasty--”

“I'm not. Don't you see you're playing right into their hands? I don't know what the solution is here, but I know what wrong is, and so do you. And genocide? Pretty far up there.”

“It's what they're playing at,” Giles murmurs. 

“Even the ones on payroll? How many is it now, four?” Five, she knows; he doesn't answer. “We're better than that. We have to be.”

Willow’s not ready to surrender her case, drawing herself taller. “It's the only option I can see.”

“Well then,  _ look harder _ . Since when do you give up on a problem so quickly? Will-low. Is that your name now then?” 

“Buffy, we--”

“No. Stop talking. You're on my team? Then here's the rules. Not. One. More. Sacrifice. No more girls. No ‘greater good’. And absolutely _not him._ If that's what it costs, then it's not worth it. The world's on fire? Then let it burn.”

 

** % **

Off Buffy’s line in the sand the tension in the room tightens with a - zing -

\- unbearably tight -

(electric tight, thanks Willow)

\- and then  _ pings _ as it snaps to a loose coil on the floor. -

Everyone shifts and resettles. Alright, these are the rules then. Our rules. That which makes us the good guys.

“We’re going down there,” -crud, she's still talking, did he miss anything?- “to put a stop to the demon infecting little girls. Got it?  _ Then  _ to Malo-sire-dude. Him vampire, me slayer; I'm sure we'll work something out. Xander, Giles, work out how to stall. Distract. Willow and I will see you up there.”

_ This whole ‘plan’ is insane. Comforting, familiarly so. _

Giles is definitely thinking it, face in his hands as he mutters,  _ barmy. _

Xander says it for them. “We're not your team. We're family. Are we done with the fighting each other part? Let's go do this barmy thing.”

 


	10. Buffy

 

 

** x **

A paddock in the Cotswolds.

Guard crew come out swinging and he hits the tree branches, bolting smoothly upwards like a cat before the hounds. Angel drops one guard with a punch and a second with the hilt of its own sword before Spike's bellowed strategy reminder sinks in and he jumps for his own safe perch, landing high in a snapping of branches and cursed oaths against whoever made trees out of wood. 

“Brickles in your britches?” Spike snorts from his tree, but of course the berk doesn't get it. “Where's your mate?”

Angel bellows out a summons to Drogyn, Watchman of The Well, and they settle back to wait. The guard crew cluster below their trees, making hopeful jabs upwards with their swords and attempting to shake the trunks with shoulder barges. Spike throws leaves at them.

The guards fall back when Drogyn steps out; recognising Angel he orders them back to the hollow tree that marks the entrance to this end of the tunnel. Angel kicks off a couple of branches to thump down ahead of him in surly complaint, so Spike makes a show of leaping down silently, lithesome and feline with an extravagant flare of coat swing.

 

Standard Issue Human appearance aside, there must be more to this Drogyn fella, if the way he levitates the half-ton stone sarcophagi back down the hole is any indication. Unable to lie, too, according to Angel; Spike tries to test the concept but he refuses to play ball, pointedly ignoring him until he finally stops, turns to look him in the eye, and says,  _ I don't like you. _

Well alright then, no need to get personal now. 

They round a corner and suddenly here's the Well proper: bottomless round shaft, width of a netball court, crossed by an industrial metal catwalk at odds with the jagged stone pathways below. 

From the middle of said catwalk he looks down into darkness, and wonders what would happen if he dropped a rock - would it fall straight to the middle, then be caught at the centre of gravity to hang in midair? Not quite the centre, though, is it; probably smash and grind against the core-side part way down before lodging in the wall somewhere. Shame there’s nothing handy to test the idea.

Angel shares what he knows of Buffy’s mission - thankfully not much - and probes for info. Drogyn seems as ignorant as anyone else of the well’s deepest inhabitants, but promises to get a message to them if anything can be found in his records. They turn back to the van, London, and cellphone reception.

 

_ “Watch my back. It's party time.”    
_

Bugger. He leaves a message in return; she'll still be in the air somewhere. _Box of demon safely returned, you're clear to go._ _Be careful down there, luv._

“Update?” asks Angel, sounding unfairly upbeat with his own crisis averted. As if the wanker didn't overhear anyway. 

“Airport first,” Spike says, “pick up the others, then we strategise.”

 

Leaving Angel guarding the wheels, he stalks into the international terminal, squinting in discomfort beneath the excess of fluorescent lighting, blue-white and harsh. The tubular bulbs buzz like mosquitoes overhead, sucking the warmth from the night and rendering the scattered travellers equally undead. Perhaps more than equally so for the pasty and mussed up businessman mumble-stumbling over an order at the café - caffeine zombie. No wonder they don't notice the real kind. He checks the arrivals board - thirty minutes, at least - then finds a spot of wall to lean against and close his eyes. 

Zombie-man becomes gradually more human as he finishes his coffee and muffin, then starts eyeing Spike speculatively while sorting his briefcase. Salesman, gotta be. Maybe one of those motivational speaker types, or pyramid scheme slingers. The suit’s got the right cheap and tacky look to it, buttons too shiny and edges all wrong. Sure enough, he snaps the briefcase shut and starts talking in an unnaturally upbeat voice. 

“These red-eye flights are a bit tough, aren't they?” Spike ignores him, but he tries again. “I'm just waiting for our client of the month, won themselves a free holiday just for joining up.”

“Spiacente,” Spike says at last, without opening his eyes, “non parlo inglese.”

The man looks unconvinced, but gives it up for now.

 

When Xan and the watcher finally emerge from the gates, he leads them to an empty corner for a quick round of hushed information swapping. Can tell Xander’s skimming past the heart of some dissension earlier, but irrelevant in the end. Buffy’s picked up the gauntlet, and Xander sounds glad to be directed. Rupes appears to have ‘be directed’ part down, but his glad looks more like an acceptance of coming doom. No matter an infidel though, as long as he follows. Off to Angel then, and exchanging him with Faith.

 

They grab hotel rooms close to Heathrow, where Willow’s slayer team join them before dawn. The girls are no happier than he is to find them Faith-less thanks to a loitering Angel, who's insistent he can be more help on this side and that she's free to catch her own flight. Starting to feel like the brooding wonder’s eyeing up his options as his own team flees ship. Or maybe he's just lost. No word on Wes and Fred.  _ Good. Take her far, far away and live happily ever after.  _ Never woulda thought head boy had it in him; guess you don't know what someone's truly made of until it's tested.

 

The slayers put their heads together for calls back and forth to Andrew and Vi, while Giles shuffles books and maps and lists. Nothing more Spike can do until dark unless they hear from Buffy and Willow, so he turns up the TV in his room and tries to nap while he can.

 

** + **

Off the plane at last and into a car, Willow silent behind the wheel while Buffy watches the suburbs and then city pass by. They cross the harbour on a huge bridge, and she scans the expanse of sparkling water below for any sign of something looking back. She and Spike had discussed and discarded the idea of calling out for Marty when they first decided on NZ;  _ this isn't her fight, _ she'd said,  _ it's mine. It's always been mine. _

 

“We need snacks,” she tells Willow, “it's what, two more hours at least?”

“Two hours-ish to the forest. Plus however long to find the entry. I should be able to feel it when we're closer.”

_ I can feel it,  _ and she considers voicing this, but Willow’s still spinning desperately for her magic wand to wave, so she'll let her do this.

At the next gas station they fill a bag with locally branded junk food, and debating the merits of the various chocolate bars and energy drinks fills the car with easy chatter at last. She shoves a final bag of candy in her pocket as they park, then they lock the rental car’s doors, stowing the key under the bumper. Just in case.

 

They step from winter sunshine into the filtered light under a thick forest canopy, every surface damp and growing, or being grown from, or in some cases both at once, big leafy epiphytes and small frondy things sprouting from every nook and bend in the trunks of the tallest trees. The place looks fittingly primordial, its tree ferns and mossy carpeting reminiscent of so many dinosaur illustrations. The only dinosaurs here though seem to be in the shape of birds, filling the air with unfamiliar song and occasional bursts of rustle and flap. A few minutes in, one tiny flitter-fluttering one starts swooping back and forth across the path behind them, exclaiming frequently at them with a short chirping peep. As Buffy pauses to look back at it again, a second and then third appear, skipping branch to trunk and flickering from side to side with quick twitches of their massively oversized fan-shaped tails. 

“Fantails,” provides Willow. 

“Fitting name.” They were in one of the myths they read, she remembers, when searching for any reference to the well on this side. “What did they do again?”

“They were said to be messengers of the gods. When Maui - a sort of trickster hero - set out to discover the origin of fire, he asked one where to find the cave of the fire goddess. It refused to tell him, so he squeezed it in his palm in anger, and ever since they've flown erratically on bent tails.”

“But he found the cave anyway, right?”

“Yep. Think they'll tell us?”

She watches them flutter back and forth over the path like speedy butterflies, turning on a dime and cheeping to each other. “I think they're catching the bugs we're stirring up.”

Willow laughs.

 

When the track they've been following starts a slow curve away to the east, Willow pauses and holds out her palm before stepping off northwards into the midst of waist-high ferns. Buffy closes up the space at her back, wincing as cold droplets of water soak into her jeans with every brush against the vegetation. Within a few minutes she's soaked from the hips down, but the chill of it has faded as something hot begins stirring faster in her blood. 

When they reach the entrance Willow almost falls straight in, stopping with a squeak as the narrow hole suddenly appears beneath ferns parted by her foot. Buffy grabs her elbow just in case, and they giggle nervously. Bending the ferns away they study it, a roundish gap, maybe a meter across, in the ceiling of a large space. The dirt floor looks about fifteen feet below, with the only light that filtering down from where they crouch. The fantails are silent now, hopping and flicking on the surrounding trees with their beady eyes intense. Buffy adjusts the scythe on her back, motions Willow to wait, then springs down, landing in a soft crouch on dry earth. She listens closely, scanning the wide cavern she's landed in, but there's no sound of alarm or movement, so she moves over and beckons Willow to join her.

At the far end of the cavern is a narrow passageway, bending sharply into invisibility a within a few feet. Standing under the weak beam of filtered sunlight from the hole, Willow pulls her hands through the air slowly, cupping and rolling them as she moves the light around until several concentrated balls of it hover around her. 

“Pretty,” Buffy tells her. Then, “Gorgeous, actually. Like some kind of dance.”

“Here,” Willow says with a smile, and rolls a couple of balls her way with a wave of her hand. 

Buffy takes a step towards the passageway and the lights drift ahead of her, looking brighter against the dark. Sliding the scythe free to hold at her side, she takes the lead as they enter the passageway.

 

The tunnel twists counter-clockwise as it descends, until it opens into a vast well shaft directly below the entry cavern. The path continues around the perimeter in a slow downwards spiral, and they pad down quietly past row upon row of stone sarcophagi, cold and still but thrumming with power. 

The feeling’s more insistent now, eager. It tugs at her in the place her restlessness has been -  _ come to me _ whispering silently in the stale air. 

“The power here …” Willow murmurs. “No, I'm not-- It's different. Not what we know.”

She feels it too, grey slimy fingers grasping out to writhe against her skin as if seeking entry, insidious and cold. The foreign touch only accentuates the ribbon of familiar hot prickling that she follows down, down, down.  _ Come. _

She sneers out at the darkness ahead,  _ Oh I'm coming for you alright. You have no idea what you've called. _

 

Willow’s floaty-lightballs start to shrink several miles in, making her huff in disappointment before they flare up to twice their original size... then start to phase in and out, producing a confusing layered strobe that brings the shadows to life. Buffy turns to her and extends a hand, and Willow hesitates briefly before clutching it in her own. 

“I've got plenty of power to spare?”

The orbs stabilise to a steady bright glow again as Willow smiles nervously. “No, no it's not that. Sorry. Just not feeling so down with the whole bowels-of-hell vibe.”

Buffy squeezes her hand and she returns it with a thankful glance. 

“Can hellpit,” she grins, and Willow’s smile turns genuine.

 

As they get lower the walls become smoother, shinier, blacker. Obsidian, maybe; shot through with something paler, milky grey and slightly transparent; and with charcoal, velvety black and light-absorbing. The sarcophagi become further and further apart, minutes between each one they pass now. Or is it hours? Days? There's no sense of time or distance in this endless tunnel, and everything's gone weird. They don't seem to be moving straight down anymore either - either the shaft has gone wonky too, or they're nearing the middle. Whichever it is, at some point the path has shifted from a protruding ledge around the edge, to the side of the shaft itself, without them noticing when the change occurred. She looks up behind them, but the light doesn't penetrate far enough to gauge it. 

There's a long empty stretch, then a huge sarcophagus looms up from the dark ahead, twice the size of any previous. Sharp slashes are scratched into one side of it, deliberately arranged but not in any alphabet she knows. Yet somehow familiar. 

“It must be one of the two,” Willow whispers, “Maloker or Miroter.”

“Miroter,” she says, eyes on the scratches.

_ Miroter, _ confirms the silent voice.

“Can you hear it?” Buffy asks.

Willow’s frowning slightly, eyes distant as if listening. “Something murmuring?”

“The shadow demon. Come on.” 

They take a wide berth around Miroter’s resting place, then the ground slopes down sharply, to make a sort of hollow in the side of the shaft with something glowing in the centre. As they reach the floor of the hollow Willow waves her lights to spread out further, revealing a space the size of a large room. And a small red box. 

Cubic and roughly a foot high, it rests on a smooth patch of ground like a parcel someone has momentarily set aside. The red of it darkens to black on the edges, dull and coal-sooty, while the middle is a deep scarlet, thick and wet; the colour of blood clotting slowly around a torn jugular, the colour of a girl’s mangled flesh. The colour of her rage. 

She longs to taste it.

“ _ Here we are at last,”  _ whispers the wind.

“It's kinda small,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“Isn't that what they say about you?” the voice says, loud and clear now. “It's not about the size of the package.”

Willow jumps when it speaks, lights twitching with her. “I  _ can _ hear that,” she says to Buffy. 

“Move closer, Slayer,” croons the voice, “you know why you've come.  _ Taste. _ ”

It ghosts across her tongue with the word; rusty sangria, metal and salt and  _ power _ . She could reach down into the box, she sees, pull globules of juicy tissue forth, sink her arms shoulder-deep in its redness and lap at its surface greedily. She shakes off the image with a toss of her head. “I come fleshed,” she tells it, “I won't be tasting yours.” She hefts the scythe and watches as Willow walks in a wide circle around the box, palms out and concentration on her face. When she reaches Buffy again she drops her palms and bites her lip.

The voice turns arrogantly smarmy; a greasy, cocksure thing that makes her want to scrub her skin with lye. “Maloker’s people are coming, girl. His army grows by the hour, and all are on their way here. You cannot defeat them. You know what I offer; you--”

“Zip it,” she snaps. “You thought I'd do it, didn't you? Get my back to the wall and I'd give myself over to take you in? And you'd kill everything here, then emerge victorious to rule the world with a killer's heart. Nothing but the kill, until only slayers are left. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm taken.” 

“By that spawn of Maloker’s?"

She smirks. “Not what I meant. I belong to myself.”

“No.  _ I  _ do the choosing, girl.” The soft, croony tone is back. “You've belonged to me since the day you I called you. My chosen one, she alone. You needn't be though, now that we are together.”

She laughs, a mirthless chuckle. “I’m not alone. None of us are. And--” It strikes her then, what she needs to do. “And, I'm not here to fight.  _ ‘She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. Stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their number.’ _

I'm here to… stand against you. 

  
To… to  _ buffer. _   
  


I choose my name. And it's Buffy.”

 

She turns her back on the demon’s presence, letting the scythe drop to hang at her side. “Willow? Help me be a wall.”

 

** % **

“Find the leak,” says Buffy, as if she's some kind of demon plumber with a spanner held ready. “And hurry. I don't think it was lying about Maloker; we need to get up there asap.”

Willow presses her lips together on her objections and boots up her brain,  _ think. _ She'd felt it on the way in - some kind of spiritual hole mirroring the physical one. Like a gap in the knee of the pants you've forgotten you're wearing, until the contrast of that cold hole points out the warmth everywhere else. So she reaches out with her power, feeling past the sides of the hollow, past cold unyielding stone, past the core of herself. Further, pushing, pushing, until there is earth. Soft and loamy where she strikes it, so that her hands sink in to be enveloped in something warm and alive, seething with the movement of a hundred tiny creatures. She curls her grasp around it and feels it tug like the alert on a spider's web, and in that movement she sees it: the whole interconnected web of it, the layer of humus and sand and gravel and even rock in places, wrapping the globe like one great carpet of life. The magic of the earth itself, or the earth of the magic. She twitches her fingers and the movement ripples out again, along threads running every which-way witch-way, back and forth, endlessly crossing; living and growing from the roots of every plant and from the tiny shining trails left by insects. And the holes, gaping wrongly on each side, laced along the sides where the web has crept in, but too broad a barrier to cross and impossible to fill. 

Feeling, sensing like this the escaping demonic energy is obvious, oozy shadows seeping forth to obscure and confuse from each side. She tries to reach for it, assess, but her extended touch stubbornly refuses to give up its white-knuckled grip on the edges. She shakes in a breath. “It's too big. There's-- I can’t cross it.”

Buffy’s hands take her own, unfolding her clenched fists to lace her fingers through. The pulse of her beats hotly on Willow’s palms, liquid fire beneath the surface, and she hesitates for a beat, almost afraid to draw on it. Then she tightens her fingers and tugs, and power surges in. 

The world behind her eyelids bursts into red-washed flame; a world on fire in a raging inferno of unstoppable force.  _ How has Buffy lived with this? _

Activating all the potentials had felt like turning a key, letting something slide smoothly into a waiting slot; this feels more like being caught in the slipstream of a comet. An angry one. Any concept of shaping it, controlling it, vanishes at the first touch, and all Willow can do is let it carry her and think,  _ Target. Shadows.  _

The power surges for them, and she screams in sudden fury as they melt away before it, retracting back into the hole only to leap out again behind.

_ “Don't fight,”  _ says Buffy, “ _ buffer.”  _ And with a squeeze of her fingers the slayer power buckles under, restrained, as everything becomes searingly bright with a liquid gold that blinds Willow’s senses before spreading to cover the web, the earth, the holes, in a brilliant glow. Brighter than the fire, eliminating shadows as if they never were. “ _ Am I doing it?” _ Buffy pants.

_ “Yes!” _

_ “What now?” _

_ “Uhh… _ ”

_ “Because I don't,”  _ -pant-  _ “wanna live the rest of my life in this hole.” _

_ She can't keep this up, _ Willow thinks, still metaphysically blinking before the buffy-glow.  _ The last of it’ll slip free, and she'll be nothing but a disconnected shell below a golden bubble. But what can I… _

_ “Willow?” _

_ Yes. Let me be Willow. “I've got it. Hang on.” _

_ Roots. _ The earthy web of power waits at the edges of the holes like a moth-eaten blanket, so she gathers the threads up at the edges and begins to weave them, winding her own power through the pattern to replace the strings as they run short, more and more of her own until she's unfolding a great mat of it before her, out, out, out across the smooth gold… to touch the far side. Gather the strings there and weave in, extend around the sides, until her working glitters like a dew-kissed web across the whole surface of the hole. 

_ “It's done,” _ she murmurs,  _ “you can stop now.” _

The glow fades and the shadows surge up against the web, and she holds her breath as they collide hard enough to make it bulge outwards in places. But the weaving stretches and flexes, absorbing the impact and remaining impenetrable. Willow pulls back slowly, gently, sliding from the earth, and feels the movement come through the web to tug against the power inside of her; all of it tied now,  _ anchored _ . Gone the soaring free-flying; she feels sunk down onto the dirt, weakened and wingless.  _ I've given too much. _ But there's earth through the stone at her back that thrums warm and pulsing and rich, and with tentative movements she sits, and then stands, to feel the web tugging from the core of her to the great expanse at the surface, supportive, its strength running through her and her own power running through it and suddenly it all feels  _ right _ .

 

Lying curled on the ground, Buffy watches her with eyes unblinking and bloodshot red, a feral rage burning in them that's too strong for Willow to hold her gaze.  _ Too much,  _ she thinks again,  _ and not right. What have I let her do?  _

The shadow voice reaches out again, gently cajoling. “You'll never make it out of here alive, little witch. You'll fall, and your working with you. Help me claim her now; she’s already burnt out her objection along with her soul.” 

“Would you just shut up?” Willow says, voice coming out more of a pleading whine than the sharp sound she'd aimed for, and trying very hard  _ not _ to think about that soul-fired glow. 

Buffy growls, a deep snarl of a sound, then turns to hiss at the box,  “Not all of it. No means no, asshole.”

“Enough of it,” it whispers back, nonchalant. “You'll crawl in circles through the dark forever, fighting my pull.”

“I will, if that's what it takes. But I won't have to.”

It laughs, confident and mocking. “No one’s coming to help, child. We've made sure of it.”

“Ha,” she barks, “You obviously don’t know Spike.” She climbs to her feet, brushing the dust from her pants with a grimace. “He  _ will  _ come for me, no matter what shit you've thrown in the way. In fact, he’ll probably be here faster  _ because  _ of all the shit you've thrown in the way. He's rather contrary like that. Come on, Willow. He hates it when I'm late.” 

Buffy  _ prowls _ up behind her, and she instinctively takes a couple of steps away before telling herself to get a grip. She's lost most of the lights while inattentive, but two are still solid enough to put out a weak illumination, so she nudges them to hold together a little longer, then turns to lead Buffy for the path north.

  
  


** * **

“I know, alright? My lawyers on it. She'll not escape.”

 

** x **

Dusk fallen and the girls headed off in various directions, Angel insists on a visit to the London branch of Wolfram and Hart; possibility Evil Inc. might be willing to provide some backup for Drogyn, if only to avoid a mess in their own backyard. 

“Off you go then,” Spike tells him, but finds himself and Xander roped in when Giles is lured along with the promise of  _ books. _

 

They're granted the use of a rather pretentious office - book-lined and tea-trayed, deep plush carpets and too many doilies. Angel tells them to get comfortable while he goes to get the lay of the land. Spike drops his coat on the desk, himself in a chair and swings his feet up to keep company with the coat, settling back with eyes closed for a few blissfully Angel-free minutes.

Giles considers the provided laptop, the cold anticipation in the eyes of the staff member when delivering promised book… _I’ll be at Kyra’s,_ he says, and scribbles down an address for Xander before slipping the volume inside his coat pocket and leaving. Xander disappears two packets of cookies from the tea tray to his pockets, then flicks through the single-serve coffee and tea sachets speculatively.

 

Spike breathes in deep, wrinkling his nose slightly at the antiseptic burn to the walls here. Then lets it out slowly, relaxing muscles with it. There's stillness… then  _ Buffy. _ Neither scent nor sound, and nothing visible to explain it, but suddenly she's  _ everywhere _ . The world's become a golden warm thing that wraps him in its embrace like floating through a July afternoon in his own garden of Eden. She's everywhere inside of him and all around him and everything blurs into ecstasy as he falls into the love of her all over again. 

When it fades it leaves him breathless, straining frantic ears for the echo of that pure golden note that wasn't sound. He wants to sob with the loss of it and cry at the beauty of it, but instead he blinks up the ceiling of someone's office and listens, listens with everything he has, locked in the endless time between heartbeats, desperation searching desolation with a wordless plea in his heart, Xander shouting unheard, and then:  _ there. _ A sudden  _ wanting _ that's not his own. Not a whisper or a call, but the gnawing nudging of a soul-deep hunger, unconsciously transmitted and wordlessly understood.  _ I exist, and I need you. _ The world begins to spin again. 

“Time to go,” he tells Xander, climbing to his feet from his tipped over chair. “Buffy needs us.” 

Xander looks like he wants to keep yammering questions, but closes his mouth with a snort of breath and nods decisively. Spike shrugs his coat back on as he heads out the door, and the boy stuffs coffee sachets in a back pocket as he scrambles to catch up.

 

Angel hails him in the foyer and Spike goes to flip him off, but stops at ‘... _message from Buffy’._ _Already got it,_ he almost tells him, but- better fill in the details. He follows him into the lift, Xander dropping on his outside. 

“It was teleported here,” Angel says, “some kind of blood magic. Expensive.”

In an office on the third floor another assholery lawyer-type waits, setting an envelope bearing Spike's name on the desk and stepping back. 

_ “...I wish things could be different, but this really is the best choice. If you can get as far from the entry as possible then there's a chance it might not reach you. I know you'll understand. I'm so sorry. Thank you.” _

 

 


	11. Willpower

 

** x **

_ “...I wish things could be different, but this really is the best choice. If you can get as far from the entry as possible then there's a chance it might not reach you. I know you'll understand. I'm so sorry. Thank you.” _

“No. Not like this.”

The man’s watching him closely, and he clenches his teeth down hard enough to send a stab of pain through his jaw.  _ If there was ever a time in my life to bite my stupid tongue it's now. Think, dammit. What are they hoping for?  _ He reads it through again, then scrunches it in his fist with a grimace.  _ Christ, it even smells like her. Assholes must have been in our apartment.  _

“Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck all of you. Come on, Xander. Let's go home.” He doesn't have to reach for the right reaction; the seething hot anger and disgust is right there waiting. Add hurt; plenty to draw on to blink, blink to let his eyes fill as he shoves the note in his pocket before storming out of the door.  _ What are they trying to pull on you now, luv? Hang in there, pet, calvary’s on the way. _

Xander’s in a state, that chocolate puppy eye wide.  _ Good. Believe it. Or at least keep quiet.  _ They jump into the first cab to pull over and Spike drops his head into his hands for a minute, breathing deep. 

“Can we talk?” Xander asks, voice carefully neutral. 

Spike eyes him through his fingers; anger… determination. Boy gets it then. He lets the tiniest flicker of wink show and growls, “Not yet.”

 

He has the cab take them to the airport, where they ditch their cell phones in separate bathrooms. Bit of luck and at least one of them will be pocketed and off on a flight. Order a pizza delivery, choose a different exit and a new cab. Wait in a park a mile from this Kyra’s address till the watcher gets his pizza and comes sneaking along. 

“Don't think they've followed us,” Spike tells him, “but someone's gone to a fair bit of effort to try and stand me down on this. Makes a bloke feel all kinds of impressive, really.”

Giles reads the letter slowly, face sinking as he goes. His gaze goes from the paper to a spot on the ground as he hands it back with a deep sigh. “I had hoped it wouldn't come to this.”

Spike does a double take, shaking the letter back at him as if reading it again would help. “You can't seriously believe this?”

Giles refuses to look up, already closing himself away. “It's the right choice. It's… what I'd…” 

_ Do? Recommend? When was the last time you voiced a recommendation on anything, instead of sitting back keeping your hands clean like you have all year?  _

“Yeah? Well, she's not like you, thank fuck. Slayer doesn't draw a battle plan on the ‘big picture’. She doesn't play by anyone's rules. She _loves_ , and she _tries,_ and she _never_ gives up on anyone. Even you,” he sneers. Then sighs. “Even me.”

“I realise this is difficult--”

Spike cuffs him on the side of his head, lightning fast but not hard enough to do any more than move his hair.

“Would you get it through your thick bleeding skull, watcher-boy? I might not always believe in myself. And I'm willing to bloody martyr myself on the cross if that's what's needed - proven that. But I will  _ never  _ stop believing in her, and this?” - he holds up the crumpled piece of paper - “is not her.”

(the whole concept, ain't it?  
she’d burn the world for one soul,  
because one soul is worth the world;  
if it wasn't, the world wouldn't be worth it.  
bleeding Catch 22)

“And if it's true? She may not-- well, she's, she's different lately.”

“If you're right, I'd rather die wrong.”

Giles looks at him for a long minute. “Let’s hope I'm wrong. What next?”

“Go clean your glasses. We've got a job to do.”

 

Giles loops back to Kyra’s to phone in a veiled update to Andrew and get one in return, before cabbing to the nearest mall where Spike and Xander wait in a ‘borrowed’ car. 

“The Slayers don't seem to be finding anything,” he tells them, “I've told everyone to group up and head for the well together before dawn. It's no use scouring the country when we know where they'll be going.”

 

Approaching the place where Angel had parked the van bearing Illyria, Spike drops a gear and rolls past slowly. Two cars are parked on the grassy verge, both sleek modern sedans and empty of inhabitants, as far as he can make out.

“Lawyer scum?” Xander asks. 

“Looks like.”

He pulls over a couple of miles further on, and they make their way quietly across paddocks on foot. Crouching behind a low stone wall within sight of the well’s trees, he motions the others to shut up their breathing while he listens. Sounds like eight or nine voices there, half of them reserved and lawyerly while the others are excited, impatient. There's a crackle of static from a walkie talkie; probably more on their way. Or down the hole. “Should be able to take the lot down easily,” he murmurs to the others, “but cover the open space in case anyone bolts. Better the rest don't know I'm down there, I'm thinking.” 

Xander fits a bolt to his crossbow; wooden shaft tipped by a silver tri-bladed bleeder head, effective against all flesh they've tested them against. 

Giles puts a hand on Spike's shoulder as if to restrain, then snatches it back embarrassedly. “Can you tell if the lawyers are human?” he asks.

_ Irrelevant.  _ “They're between me and her is what they are.” The anxiety he's been stifling since feeling that summons is threatening to slip its leash; too much wasted time already. Immortal hellbeasts or only human, they're going down in a furious rending of limbs and breaking of bones. 

“No--” says Giles, “If they're not it could get ugly. Faith's mentioned griken demons in the security service, and warlocks.”

_ Grikens.  _ Tricky buggers, but not unkillable. Not tonight. 

Giles continues in a hushed, serious tone, “It occurs to me that a diversion may be of use. They’d recognise me, were I to approach.”

“And only be too glad to behead you, I'd say.” He shakes his head and moves to rise.

“If that's what it takes.”

_ Oh for fuck’s sake _ . He settles back on his haunches and scowls at Giles. “Don’t be a bloody melodramatic prick. Put your sword down and your brain back in. You forget her part about ‘no more sacrifices’? Watcher's have a problem listening or summat?”

Giles looks like he's been slapped, gloom replaced by shocked affront. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, turning his head away as he swallows. 

“Can we get on with it now?” Spike hisses.

“Wait-- I've got it. Give me your lighter.” He holds a palm out, and with a sceptical cocked brow Spike hands over his zippo. “Give me a minute. You'll know.” He takes off in a crouched run behind the wall before Spike finishes inhaling to question him further. He huffs the breath out his nose and turns a questioning look to Xander, but he only shrugs.

 

A minute's worth of Xander’s heartbeats later Spike shakes his head and tells him to get ready with his crossbow. “No. Give him one more minute,” Xander says, looking back and forth from the trees to the road where Giles disappeared. Gritting his teeth and sending him a look fit to kill, he continues counting, somewhat disgruntled that the speed of his timer doesn't increase off his look.

Thirty seconds later there's a roaring  _ fwoosh  _ from the direction of the road as orange light explodes across the night. Silhouetted by fire, the parked cars are black blobs and then burning things themselves as the pool of burning gas beneath each spreads flames to tyres and tubing. From the trees around the well shouting rings out and everyone comes racing into the open, staring in surprise at the conflagration. One besuited man starts to move forward, but an angry voice stops him with a shout of  _ ‘Distraction! They're trying to draw us!’ _

“ _ Stay down,”  _ Spike hisses to Xander, then makes a bent over dash to the end of the wall, putting the tree trunks between himself and the crowd. They're all looking around anxiously now, and starting to retreat back towards the well in a cluster. Just then there's the  _ boom  _ of an explosion as the fumes in one of the gas tanks go up, sending a shockwave of sound and heat and air rolling across the paddock. All heads instinctively turn towards the incoming threat; all but his. He flies low across the open ground and dives into the hollow tree of the well, ducking and rolling to let momentum carry him to the bottom of the sharply sloped entry tunnel. Darting around the bend, he presses his back to the wall and listens hard for anything approaching from either direction. 

There's the approaching sound of an argument from above, halting near the entrance. A clipped English voice reprimands the rest for moving from their posts - as if it didn't do the same. ‘ _We wait,’_ he catches, _‘once everyone is here you can check what's happened to the damn cars. Until then,_ _stay_ _put_ _. No one’s to enter.’_

He smirks.

 

In an antechamber off the entry tunnel lie the bodies of Drogyn’s guard crew, seeping greenish fluid into the dirt. No sign of the man himself though, and no scent of human (or near-human) blood.

 

As he reaches the top of the well proper a second feeling of urgent calling comes crashes into him; only this is something aggressively authoritative, commanding and angry. Reminiscent of Angelus’ taunting orders, and his own smouldering fury as he obeyed. Fangs are out before he realises and shakes off his gameface with a snarl. _I don't take orders._ _Maloker, I assume?_ Relief when no inner voice answers.

Down then, into darkness and whispering. Scenting the air for any breath of her, but all is still and stale. True pitch blackness before long, so that he has to feel out the path that winds down around the edge of the shaft. 

Angry command grows stronger, stronger, urging him forward.  _ That's where I'm going,  _ he growls at it, but it takes no heed. Calling everyone it can, he realises. And afeard too; girls must have worked out some way to stop it.

 

Things go topsy-turvy in too much dark and shouting; hunting horns and  _ come to me. _ Hunting where now? Snaps teeth at the blackness and realises they're pointed again; control’s slip-sliding down the tunnel. 

And was it Blyton or Carroll?

 

** + **

There's a pounding where her brain should be and a hollow place inside her chest. _Let me fix that_ , that voice whispers, and oh, it would be easier, wouldn't it? Another giant sarcophagus looms ahead and she bares her teeth as she approaches it; _Maloker._ _You I_ _shall_ _release, and tear to dust._

“Buffy!” snaps Willow, and the lightballs fly away to mark the path ahead.

_ Don't need your light. I am what hunts the night. Ha. _

“Buffy!” Willow snaps again, “Spike's expecting us, remember?” 

Ah yes. She's been calling him.  _ Pick up, Spike. Pick me up from this rabbit hole. I'm Alice, Alice, full of malice, fierce and hellish, and it's time to wake for tea. _

She follows the lights for a time, but when they only move further away from Maloker she stops and looks back. It's her job, isn't it? Slay the vampires. And just another vampire, she'd called him. Can't leave without doing her job. Willow’s shouting and cajoling, but she ignores her and takes a few steps back.  _ God, it's such an empty hole.  _ “Where did I go?” she asks. Of Willow or shadows, she doesn't know. It makes her mad, the not-knowing, and she grabbles at the stone of the wall, scratching to try and tear something free to hurl away, to break. Smooth though, smooth purchase-less stone, so she lifts the scythe and swings it like a bat to smash into the wall. Shards splinter off in every direction, sharp little slivers spitting and biting; so she does it again, and again, an unfamiliar shrieking shout in her throat. 

Can stop now; rest her forehead against the cool stone, close her eyes. 

“Buffy?” says Willow in a tiny voice. 

She nods and takes three more steps upwards, then sinks to her knees with a sob.

 

** x **

 

there’s a

\- sound

from below

 

anguished

and-

vengeful.

 

then a

\- scent 

at last 

 

blood

and...

tears.

 

_ She hurts _ . An anger that’s all his own flares enough to drive back the presence commanding to it, so he lets it take the wheel, giving over thought and rationale to something primal and incorruptible. 

Things are simple now. Fairly fly down the hot trail of scent, baying out blood lust and untamed violence. Her answering bark is the whip-crack-snap of a thunder roll, the sound of breaking bones and of her darkness. A promise of death and undead life.

They meet in a smashing collision, a desperate clawing, a sinking of sharp edges into offered flesh. Bruises are birthed to cover those borne and marks are drawn in each other's skin as they crash against stone walls.

Willow stands back.

 

 

His cloak of anger abates (or is it simply paled?) at the touch of her, but there's no room left in his senses for the confusion to wriggle back.

Slayer above him is a thing of hate, the furies in singular. Malevolence roils in every razorblade twitch of her muscles, and her hands feel like burning brands through the leather of his coat. The green of her eyes has been eclipsed, blown pupils surrounded by the red of her rage - the sun no longer shines here. 

She holds him pinned when the tussle ends, fingers clenched bruisingly tight where she grips him by chest and one wrist; he'd like to pretend he lets her, but knows that's hopeless. Couldn't push her away if he wanted to, and won't try. Because, god help him, it's not the steel of her grip that holds him, it's the weakness of his own dead heart. Still Buffy, or parts of her.

_ “What the fuck have you done?” _ he snarls at Willow, and she cowers back further, ball of light shifting with her to leave them in the dark in their tangle of limbs on the ground. 

“No!” growls Buffy, driving her fingers in harder. “Help me out.”

Right. Worry about the who-what-how later. Direct her upwards then; nip at her heels viciously when she tries to halt, promise her a fight at the surface and hope you don't have to stand in.

The closer they get the sharper she moves, honed and pointed until he's racing to keep up, sprinting in the slipstream of her, a vacuum of burning heat and pounding heartbeats, shaft to tunnel to tree to outside to meet-- chaos. ( _ Thank fuck _ ).

At least it is at first glance - Slayers in a loose ring about the grove of trees, and fighting hard against a veritable hoard of vampires from every direction. But covering each other flank-to-flank as dust erupts left and right, and no one looks like falling.

She barrels straight through their lines and into the nearest target, a swift crunch and she's already moved on as it collapses to dust in her wake. With a muttered curse he dives after her, chasing the dust cloud of her destruction across the open ground and casting frantic looks in every direction for anything he needs to cover her from. Or from her. She's too fast for anything to near her though, and too erratic for them to try and predict. When a bolt from someone's bow hits the grass her head whips around in the direction of the trees, and he bellows a frantic order to hold their fire before another vamp catches her eye and sends her tearing off again. There must be hundreds, more, all the vampires in England maybe, answering the call of the well.

Back and forth across paddock and down to the road now clustered with abandoned vehicles, where he finally finds a target for his fists in the three lawyer-types wise enough to be cowering behind a van, guns drawn. Lays them out cold, then sends his fist into the face of a forth that jumps suddenly from the rear door, but this one's something other than human, and barely twitches at his pulled punch. Well alright then. Dodge, parry and then uppercut to the chin to clear a path for his stake to slam through its neck with a whoop of excitement. Griken demon down. He races after her again, catching up in time to see her spring from the bonnet of one of the burnt out cars as an idiotic fledge charges her. She swings the scythe one final time then lands in a crouch, eyes swivelling everywhere but coming up empty as he skids to a halt a short distance back.

“Did-- Did I get them all?” she asks in the sudden quiet.

“Yeah,” he laughs, a touch of breathless hysteria to it, “you did.”

“Good.” A manic giggle slips from her too, and she drops the scythe to the ground to fist her hands her hair and scrunch her eyes shut. The sound twists into something unhinged before she cuts it off with a shudder. She releases her handfuls of hair and opens her eyes, and there's a sliver of green back in one now as they fix on his. 

Her voice whispers out, a timid little thing he has to strain to catch as he steps up close to her. “Did they all go poof?”

“That they did.” Doesn’t know whether the human lawyers will come round, but that's not hers to worry over. And they made their choice when they picked up their weapons.

He brings a hand up to her cheek and she leans into it with a soft sigh, skin scalding on his palm and sticky where sharp little cuts cross it. If he laved them with his tongue, would steam hiss from it?  _ What are you now, luv, with your gold melted away? _

 

** + **

_ God, the coolness of him.  _ His eyes are something to bare hers for, the grey of soft rain showers, the blue of winter nights. He wears his heart in them as always, exposed and vulnerable, and she blinks several times, wishing she could shield his nakedness from the razor blades in her own; feels like she could kill with a look right now. But she needs this, and fears tearing away would lacerate him where he touches her. So she holds steady, hoping he can find his way safely through the sharp edges.

The soothing cold on her cheek is joined by a hand on the back of her neck, fingers splaying down onto her shoulder blades, and she shivers with the relief of it as the wild tension around her eyes finally eases. Crossing the barrier out of the well she'd felt the hand of outside interference fall away; now with his eyes and hands holding her everything is clearing at last. Her anger feels like an insignificant thing in the path of something stronger; sheer folly to have thought she had strength to compare to his.

“I love you,” she murmurs, a breath of relief at the feeling washing through her again. Melt into it, let it wash down into her hollow places from the sky of his eyes, roll herself deliciously in the way her words make them crinkle up at the corners. “Love love  _ love _ you.” 

His smile grows, and _yes,_ she thinks, _this_ _is my power._

“Good,” he says, “Because I think I might just love you too, Sl- Buffy.” 

She feels an inane grin creeping into the corners of her mouth. “I  _ am _ Buffy. I'm  _ punny. _ ” He looks confused and more than a tad concerned, so she adds, “I'll tell you later. Willow?”

He looks back up the paddock. “Said go ahead. Probably still walking.”

“We'd better get up there.” There's lights moving in the trees and an undertone of hushed voices, ready to jabber at her from every direction. His hand slips from her cheek as she turns, then sweeps around her thighs as he snatches her up off the ground to fold against his chest. “What are you doing?” she squeaks, as her hands take their own initiative to wrap around the back of his neck, searching out the soft curls there.

“You looked tired,” he says simply, and starts carrying her back along the road. 

_ Oh, I am. Universe, let me steal this moment. _ So she flops her head back and lets her feet swing loose with the rhythm of his steps until she feels him reach the grass. “Put me down,” she has to say then. “They'll think you've killed me.” 

He chuckles and bends to nip at her throat with a playful little growl, and she wriggles and laughs at the tickle. “Stop it. Can't let the girls see me carried back like a swooning woman.” 

He squeezes her to him briefly, then swings his arm down and ducks his head to nip at her nipple as he sets her on her feet. She takes his hand and they head back across the paddock, where the dust lies thick on dewy grass and all is motionless calm.

 

** x **

 

Conversation fades away as they approach and the girls shift their feet warily, respect waring with fear. And not unreasonably, so says the thrill of  _ Danger!  _ zinging down his spine like nothing he's ever felt. Makes him want to tackle her down in a masochistic frenzy of fighting and fucking. But, time and place, and need answers first. 

Xander bounces forth from the trees and throws his arms around Buffy with a wide grin and happy shout of her name, and hands relax slightly on weapons as she hides the tightness in hers.

“Willow?” she asks. 

“Over here, we just came out.” He releases Buffy and leads them to the well tree, where Giles stands fussing with his glasses and head ducked to cover the breach in reserve that shines in his eyes.

Willow sits with her legs spread out in front, palms to the ground between them. There's something spaced and vacant about her, so he stifles his resurging angry questions for the moment to watch with narrowed eyes as Buffy squats in front of her. 

“Will…” she says gently, “Are you ok?” 

Willow looks up with a distant, wondering expression. “It's so  _ alive _ . I never knew. Not- not like this.” Buffy lifts her eyebrows at her, and Willow flushes slightly. “Yes. I'm ok. More than ok. Just… buzzing, a little. It's so  _ big. _ ”

Buffy’s voice comes out even gentler now. “What did you do?”

“I  _ fixed  _ it. The holes. I-- sewed them shut, I guess you could say. I put me into it, and now I can feel it in me…” She drifts off, and Buffy turns to look at Giles, who looks just as perplexed. 

“Will the, ah, contagion, be contained?” Giles asks. 

“Yes,” she smiles foggily. “Nothing can get through. Even if something got loose from its box it wouldn't be able to leave the well. And things will grow over it now. I'm the scaffold to let them reach. And…” -she looks at Buffy with that look of wonder- “you were mine. Goddess, you were so  _ shiny… _ ”

He wants to slap her, but leaves his hand in Buffy’s crushing grip and puts the violence into his quiet tone instead. “What did you do to her?”

Willow’s eyes focus on him before moving across to Buffy’s, and a look of sympathy wells up in them. “She did it. Made a shiny light. I don't know how. The demon said-- You must be tired, Buffy. You need to rest.”

“So do you,” Buffy tells her. “Xander?”

“On it,” he says, coming to sit at Willow’s side. 

Buffy stands and looks at Giles. 

“She's right,” he says, “we can hear all the details tomorrow. Let's get everyone to the hotel and cleaned up. I don't think there'll be any more action here tonight.”

“Injuries?”

“Nothing major. Sarah’s got a nasty slice through her hand, but that's the worst.”

“I'd better see her.”

She drops his hand to move to the girls, and he touches Giles’ elbow, drawing his head in to whisper to. “Lawyers. I put them out on the ground by a van. Dunno…”

“They won't be coming at us anytime soon?”

“No.”

Giles nods. “Anything else down there?”

“Dead demon. Lotta dust.”

Giles looks at him and ducks his head in an odd gesture of ( _ respect? _ ) as he murmurs, “ _ Thank you _ .” He looks like he's going to say something more, but is interrupted as Buffy’s snarl cuts through the air.

“What the  _ hell  _ are you doing here?” she shouts. 

To the rear of the main group of girls, Maddy and Giselle freeze where they'd been trying to slip away. Maddy turns slowly, shamefaced, but then raises her eyes to Buffy with a look of determination. “Helping.”

“You’re not supposed to!” Buffy’s hands have curled into fists at her sides, and he edges over to stand closer.

Maddy tilts her chin defiantly, squaring her shoulders. “You don’t own me.”

“No… No, you're right,” she says, “I don’t. I'm sorry, I can't--” 

She turns away from them and starts handing out brisk orders, rushing, rushing to get everyone tucked away safe before it catches up with her.

Willow takes her shoes off before climbing to her feet and wriggling her toes in the grass, then wanders off down the paddock as Giles jogs back up it to report on the vehicle situation. He points out a car to Xander, who rounds up Willow and leaves, taking Maddy and Giselle with him. The rest of the girls split into the groups they arrived in, rearrange a few places, then head for their cars. 

Suddenly there's nothing more to do here, and her fists are white-knuckled on themselves as she looks around everywhere before turning to him with something panicked in her eyes. “I--  _ Help _ .”

“Hush,” he says, stroking her hands to try and ease her fingers open. “Can stop now.”

“Can’t.”

_ “Tace, dormi _ ,” whispers Giles behind them, “ _ dormi.” _

She jerks to look at him, suspicion replacing the panic.

“It's just a sleep spell,” Spike tells her. “You can swoon now, slayer. I got you.” 

She watches his face carefully as Giles whispers again, again... then her eyes roll up and she slumps into his arms like a (dust covered) heroine. “Nice work,” he tells Giles. 

“It's never been so effective.”

“She's tired.”

The look of pride and awe on Giles’ face deepens. “I would expect she is.”

  
  
  


 


	12. Comedown

 

 

** + **

Consciousness swims up slowly, fogged by the worst headache she's ever felt in her life. She squints her eyes shut harder against it, then a familiar cool hand presses to her forehead. 

“ _ Hey there, _ ” he murmurs.

There's badly-hidden worry in his voice, so she forces her eyes open to meet his where he squats next to the bed. “Hey yourself,” she whispers, and some of the worry drains from his face as he smiles that tender little smile she loves best.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. 

“Like I drank three bottles of whiskey and danced all night. What time is it?” It's awfully bright, too much sunlight blazing through the thick curtains and into her pounding skull, and she has to close her eyes again. 

“Late afternoon. Willow’s team have just left for the castle. Coffee?”

“God, you're an angel-- no-” she almost shakes her head, but the pounding stops her in time. “You’re… Spike.”

He chuckles, a deep rumble of gooey caramel sauce. “I know. I'll get it.”

A whimper of complaint slips from her when he takes his hand away, but then he's back, setting a mug and water bottle down on the bedside table. She opens her eyes very carefully and pulls herself up to sit, and he climbs over and settles next to her, one arm going around her shoulders and the other offering her a damp facecloth. She presses it to her face and almost purrs, melting back against him, then spreads it out on top of her head and reaches for the coffee. It's cold - fridge-cold, black-black and deliciously bitter-sweet. 

“Ok?” he asks. 

“Ugh, it's  _ perfect _ .” She sips it slowly, feeling like it's trickling coherency back into her aching head. When it's gone he offers a refill, but she's not ready to let him move away to get it and picks up the water instead. 

“Watcher's next door,” he says, “Xander and Willow next to him. All itching to come and poke at you, but I told them to fuck off until you were ready. Few of the girls sleeping about the place too. Stood Faith down before she left LA.”

“Thank you,” she says, but it feels so insignificant for the gratitude she's feeling.  _ Why is there no word for this?  _ She picks up his hand and kisses it instead. Something pulls on her cheek, so she puts the water down to feel it out carefully, finding a criss-cross of butterfly stitches.

“You had bits of flint in there,” he says, “took a bit of digging to get them out, sorry.”

“The wall offended me.”

“Stupid of it,” he says.

Her hand goes to her hair next, and she grimaces at the feel of it. “I must look awful-- and don't try and tell me I don't, Mr Charming.”

“Your hair's a grubby bird's nest,” he says, fingering an end.

She smiles. 

“But who am I kidding, it's still gorgeous.” He tilts his head to smile at her sidelong, and she can't deny he's speaking (his) truth. Delusional vampire. “Your eyes are coming right, too.”

“Huh?” 

“They went a bit weird. Was worried you might have hit your head, but you haven't got a bump anywhere.”

_ Well, that's explainey _ . “Everything went a bit weird down there.”  _ Don't feel like I’m minus a soul, though. Oh god, what if I'm leeching his?  _ The idea sounds ridiculous even as she thinks it, but she still has to get away. “Bathroom,” she says, climbing to her feet carefully and crossing to the en suite. 

It's dim in there with the light off, but not so dark that the eyes in the mirror should be so dilated.  _ Alright, high on the creep factor. And no wonder everything's too bright.  _ Her left eye is surrounded by red, while the right one looks more pinkish.  _ Maybe Xander could lend me a patch, and we could be twins for the day. _ She moves her gaze across her bandaged cheek to the mess of her hair, down to her grotty shirt, and heaves a sigh.

 

In the other room there's a knock at the door, and Spike tells it to  _ Bugger off! _

“Spike?” says a female voice. “We've found you! It's Fred and Wesley, let us in.”

“ _ Bollocks,”  _ he hisses.

“Let them in,” she sighs. If he sends them next door she'll only have to follow anyway to see what's up now. 

“You sure?” 

She nods.

When he opens the door she squints her eyes shut and turns away until it closes behind them, then hovers in the bathroom doorway as Spike pokes Wesley in the chest.

“I actually thought you had a brain!” he admonishes, sounding personally insulted. “What the fuck are you doing back in this? Supposed to be in the Bahamas by now.” 

Wes looks glumly resigned. “I did try to tell her that. But she heard someone might need help…”

Spike lowers his hand and his face. “Yeah,” he assents quietly, “that sounds about right.”

Fred’s made her way around the bickering to stop in the middle of the small hotel room, giving Buffy an embarrassed little wave. With her hair in flowing shampoo-commercial waves, glossy lips smiling sweetly and a cute ruffled top she looks unfairly winsome, and Buffy feels her lower lip slide into a pout. 

“Sorry,” says Fred, “didn't mean to come bursting in. But we've just picked up Drogyn, safe and sound. He's in the car.”

“Yeah?” says Spike, turning. “Assumed the bloke was gonners.”

“Yeahuh. He was arrested at the supermarket yesterday on a shoplifting charge. Took some wrangling, but the police have just realised they made a mistake. We thought we'd better find out exactly what's happened before we go near the well.”

“Question on everyone's mind,” she murmurs. “Let me, umm… wash my face, or find a paper bag, or something, then we'll get everyone in here. Did Xander bring any spare clothes?” she asks Spike, picking at the torn sleeve of her shirt.

“Oh!” says Fred, “Do you need clothes? I just thought you were rocking the cool battle-hardened warrior look. I've got my suitcase in the car? Wes! Get my bags, then go wait with Drogyn. We're being rude.”

 

Ten minutes later, Buffy sits cross-legged next to Spike on the bed in her own Cute Ruffled Top and Shiny Lip Gloss, and a pair of sunglasses so deliciously dark that she can approximate a comfortable smile behind her refilled coffee mug. Willow yawns on the bed opposite -  _ I haven't been ready to sleep _ , she explains, but looks more clear-headed, and the others pull over kitchen chairs. 

Drogyn’s all manners and gratefulness, but looks like he's been through the wringer in the past 24 hours. “ _ I can't lie,”  _ he says,  _ “and I have an issue with direct questions. Those policemen…” _ He calls her  _ ma’am _ as he explains his calling to guard the well, the inherited duty of his bloodline.  _ “We never knew how to seal off the danger… only ways to try and limit it.”  _ His excitement sobers when Spike tells him of the deaths of his warriors, and he frowns at the clock. Apparently they need to be safely buried by tonight if they're to reassemble and reanimate comfortably ( _ can she get an eww? _ ). She thanks Fred again, then the three of them head out.

“Next?” she asks. 

“Kyra’s in my room,” says Giles hesitantly. “If you wanted… She's an excellent healer and empath.”

“She is,” says Willow. “We talked. About me, I mean. About what this means for me.”

“And…” Buffy prompts. “If you can.”

“I haven't got anything left in me. But it'll trickle back, over time, as long as I keep the connection flowing. It's like...like I've sold all my belongings and joined a commune, and I have to grow into it before I can ask it to help me. But I want to stay, and watch it grow.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That sounds a bit cult-ey.”

“No, Buffy, it’s wonderful. Just a lot to take in today.”

“You didn't have to do it,” Buffy says, guilt sinking fast.

“Yes, I did.  _ Oh _ I did. I just didn't know I could, until I did. Thank you.” There's a contented smile on her face that Buffy hasn't seen for years, and something relaxes with the realisation that Willow really is happy with this. At least right now. 

“All right. I'd better see Kyra then.”

“I'll send her in,” Giles says, “and we'll give you some privacy.”

“No,” she says, “We'll only have to re-explain everything. Just go get her.”

 

She's expecting a female-Giles, but the woman who enters looks more like someone's hippy grandmother, complete with jingly bead necklaces and white hair hanging straight to her waist. “Rupie,” she says, “pop the kettle on, would you?” She sits on the floor and pats the spot in front her as she turns to Buffy. “Come on then. Let's have a look at you. Don't worry, you can keep the sunnies on.”

Buffy folds herself down to sit facing her and lets her take her hands, relieved at how casually the woman does so. Kyra’s eyes drift close, flickering behind her lids as a multitude of emotions cross her face.

When she opens them again she looks sad - heartbreakingly so, as if a beloved dog has just died. Buffy tries to snatch her hands back, but somehow Kyra’s grip has become binding, and all she can manage is a twitch. 

“ _ Oh, dearie, _ ” Kyra says, “Oh, you poor child.” She looks around at the other four, piercing and slow; Spike sitting forward ready to intervene, Giles fidgeting with his glasses, Xander watching quietly with Willow smiling nervously at his side, and back to linger on Spike, who manages to look both guilty and dangerous. Buffy follows her eyes around, blushing and trying to laugh it off with her face. “Stop it,” Kyra tells her, and she blushes harder. “You don’t need to protect them right now. I think you've done enough to shield the world for one week, don’t you? It was quite the experience yesterday, I must say.” Spike tilts his head sharply at Kyra, and she looks at him. “Yes, you felt it, didn't you? I'd love to have a closer look at you- not today, don't panic, child.” She squeezes Buffy’s hands. “We're here for you. You must be so tired.”

Buffy digs for some lighthearted irony to put in her tone. “I just got up.”

Kyra chuckles sadly. “You keep on like this, and one of these days you won't.”

_ Mood killer.  _ “Did I… what's happened to me?”

“Your soul's still attached, don't worry. Willow told me what that creature said. No, you were burning something brighter down there. Love runs deeper than souls, dearie - you should know that. The soul's just a depository, and yours is exhausted. Nine years now, isn't it? I think you're setting a record. What you need is a holiday.”

“I can't--”

“Don’t give me that, of course you can! Nay, you  _ must.  _ You're all off-kilter. You were never meant to walk out of there without giving up your self, but of course you've broken the rules. Now what you've got left is too worn out to contain this much power, and it's going to keep burning. You need to rest, let the coffers refill, before the fire gets out of control. Though I dare say once you have it'll be more manageable than it has been; it's cut free of the well, and all yours now. Rest up and you'll get it back in hand; everyone gets bitchy when they're tired.”

She can't think of anything to say to that. 

“Now let's have a look at those eyes.  _ Obscuro. _ ” The room grows darker, and she releases Buffy’s hands. “Take them off.”

Buffy takes off her sunglasses, and Kyra leans in to peer at her face. “May I?” she asks, holding her hands out. Buffy shrugs one shoulder, and Kyra’s fingers settle against either side of her head, poking strangely. She moves Buffy’s head around and studies each eye in turn, then releases her and picks up the sunglasses to hand back. “Well, I can't do anything for the light sensitivity, you'll just have to be patient there. You’re all full of moonlight, holding place for the sun. But I can give you something for the headache, if you like?”

“ _ Please. _ ”

“Lovely. Consider a sedative for the flight, too; I find them harshly bright and rage-inducing enough on a good day. Try to stick to the dark for the next few weeks; I don't imagine you'll find that too hard. Take your boy and get away somewhere quiet and private, give yourself some downtime. You're banned from work until you can sunbathe comfortably.”

“Seconded,” says Giles. “We can certainly manage things for the summer now that you've stomped this out so thoroughly.”

With the pounding in her head and Spike wearing that smirk that says he's ready to shoot down whatever argument she raises, she gives it up for now. 

“I'll fetch you something to help,” Kyra says. She opens the door to find Fred raising her hand to knock, and ducks past her as she swings her head in the door.

“Do you know where Angel is?” she asks. “I can't get him on his cellphone, and he hasn't been back to the office.”

Spike twitches, then his smirk spreads into an amused grin. “Probably ten thousand miles away, waiting to go poof. You'd better keep trying his phone.”

 

** % **

A beach-side bar, Malaysia. 

He'd come here with the image in mind of sitting alone at the empty end of the beach, gazing out to sea, becoming one with himself, turning history over to ponder once more as he waited to confront his probable end. But after several hours of that he was no closer to understanding, and starting to suspect it was pointless. When he’d started thinking that maybe he should have dragged Spike along with him he’d realised he was getting dangerously bored, and made the trek back to the lights and sounds of this small bar. 

And why not have a drink then, if it's to be his last night on earth? It comes in a pineapple with two umbrellas and a purple straw, and he stakes the umbrellas into the tough rind of the pineapple with a grimace before having a sip. 

Probably should have made Spike come with him. Hope the boy's had the sense to get clear; that message was for him, after all. Angel's own is probably waiting back on his desk in LA. But Buffy will feel guilty if the dimwit goes down drunk in a London gutter when she'd tried so hard to warn him. If Angel makes it through this he'll have to spin a tale about how understandingly Spike took the news; the truth won't do. Spike never could see the bigger picture, with his single-mindedness and dumb determination. 

Awful for Buffy though. She ought to stand down, really; no reason for her to still be running things with all the younger girls about. Go live with that sister of hers, look for something 9-5 with an insurance package. He could offer to take a management role with the council, as soon as his two-year contract with WF&H expires. With Fred and Wesley gone, Gunn in pieces, and Lorne and Faith only occasional ghosts about the place, it's starting to feel like a lost endeavour. He'd hoped they'd at least be able to help Cordy with all of that medical expertise, but it seems like the higher-ups are saving that to be the hook for the next contract. Perhaps he should leave her a message, in case they decide to do something once he's gone. He turns on his cellphone, and it rings before he can dial.

“Angel?” says Fred, “Where are you? We’ve got Drogyn here and we're taking him back to the well, but we thought you might want a word first.”

“What do you… What happened?”

“Oh, you don’t know? Buffy’s team did something yesterday to desex all the vampires. I think she's busy, but I could put Spike on. Where are you?”

“... Business. Urgent case. I'll be back in LA tomorrow. Bye.”

He snaps his phone shut and stares at it as if it's grown three heads.

 

** x **

“This is marijuana,” Slayer says, wrinkling her nose adorably as she looks inside the small tin Kyra has handed her.

“Yes. I've put a veil on it, so don't worry about customs as long as you keep it in that box. It should help you through the worst of the headache, and there's plenty to share, should someone else happen to come down with one.” She winks at him, and he has to grin at the cheek of her.

Buffy picks up a perfect pre-rolled joint from the tin, holding it daintily between two fingertips as she studies it with a dubious expression through her sunglasses.

“Rupes!” he calls over, “You'd better be handing my zippo back so’s I can offer my lady a light.”

Watcher feels through his pockets then throws it over, and Buffy puts the joint back down to look at Giles curiously. 

“Quite the merry arsonist, this one,” Spike says. “I'll find us an ashtray and he can give you a tale of petty vandalism to go with the debauchery.”

“Put those away,” Kyra tells Buffy, “If I'm staying for the story I'll get mine out. Rupert?” 

“No, no.” He waves her off politely, looking embarrassed. 

“Suit yourself.” She sits next to Buffy on the bed, takes Spike's offered ashtray and lighter, and gives her an encouraging smile. “It really will help. I know you girls don't get much use from the usual anti-inflammatories.”

Buffy still looks like she wants to refuse, so he reaches over and flicks on the light switch, making her cringe and bring a hand up against it.

“Alright, alright, you've made your point,” she says as he flicks it off again. “Bring on the teenage-rebellion debauchering. I never did the chance to really engage in it.”

 

He tells the bulk of it himself in the end, skimming over the attempted duplicity of WR&H and forgetting the watcher's crisis of faith. Can always fill them in once she's on better ground. 

“Should we be expecting retaliation from them?” she asks. “They were obviously batting against us.”

“I don’t think so,” says Giles. “They back the winning team, whoever that may be.”

“And today - that's you.” Spike pats her on the knee.

He relates what they found on reaching the well, then passes the baton to Giles to explain how he came to have Spike's lighter.

“I'm never going to live this down,” Giles says, “but Spike's rant reminded me of being called  _ Guiles. _ So I used them. Unscrewed the drain plugs on their petrol tanks, let them drain to fumes, lit the puddle. Made a rather nice distraction, if I do say so myself. Once Spike had made his move Xander came down to me. We met the girls back down the road as they arrived, then managed to claim the high ground when the lawyers moved out to greet the first groups of vampires. After that it was solid fighting until you, ah, took over.”

Buffy nods. She looks more comfortable now, the muscles in her cheeks easing and hands relaxed. He pulls her head down to lie on his lap and strokes her hair softly as she melts into him, fingers gliding back and forth, up and down, soothing them both. Her breathing evens out as she sinks into sleep, and he has to stifle a yawn of his own. He whispers his thanks and goodbye to Kyra as Giles walks her out before the watcher returns to sit down opposite again. 

“Asleep?” Giles whispers. 

“Yeah.”

Giles watches her for a long minute, a tinge of sadness in the tenderness of his eyes. He doesn't look up to speak. “Spike, I…”

Spike waits, stroking, stroking, watching the way the strands shift under his fingers.

“Thank you. For being there this year. And what you said to me yesterday…. You're a smarter man than me.”

He smiles to himself. “ ‘m not. Done more stupid things than you could imagine. But not this. Loving her. Can't ever be wrong. Have faith in it.” 

“I see that now.” He’s quiet again, and Spike feels his eyes shift from Buffy up to himself. “I owe you an apology.”

He looks over at the watcher, but he's dropped his gaze to the floor. “Forget it. History.”

Giles looks up at him, supplication in his grey eyes, the tired lines of his face. “No, I need to…. I'm sorry, Spike.”

Spike holds his gaze and nods once, saying nothing. 

“Thank you,” Giles whispers, and they return to watching Buffy sleep.

 

They fly back to Chicago that night, Giles with Maddy and Giselle in tow, Willow to stay with Xander for the week, and Buffy looking like an undercover celebrity with her dark sunglasses and a cap pulled down over her face. And a certain fragile slowness brought on by enough tranquilisers to put a horse to sleep. 

He opens the apartment door cautiously, then storms over to snatch a sleeping ball of fur from the couch before it can react. Holding the kich-kich up by the scruff, he gives it a threatening shake as he shouts at it, “Bloody  _ knew  _ something had been in here. So you lot are serving wolf, sheep, and deer now, are you?”

The kich makes a plaintiff high-pitched cry, and Buffy grabs the sleeve of the arm holding it.

“Don't hurt it!”

_ Bloody softy. _ He lifts his eyebrows at her. “This ain't hurting it.” He looks back at the creature. “I'm saving that for if it won't talk. Drop the act, furball.”

“We  _ do not  _ work for Wolfram and Hart,” it squeaks. “The  _ shureen  _ do. There were two here yesterday when we brought information. We got one before they could flee.”

“Shureen?” Buffy asks. 

“Humanoid demon with a bit of skill at teleporting things. Eats children,” he tells her. Then speaks to the kich again, “What'd you do with it then?”

“Ate it, of course. They're quite prized. We wondered if you'd want to know, so I stayed behind to wait. Plus, I was too full.”

Matter of fact, the kich does feel much heavier than he'd expected, and there's a certain plush roundness disrupting the usual sleek shape. “Ate the evidence, then? Convenient.”

“There were some papers left. In the kitchen.”

Buffy moves around him and into the kitchen, coming back with a manila folder, several loose pages, and one shoe, business class. “Evidence says: we've been robbed by a lawyer. It's telling the truth.”

He puts the kich down, trying to smooth its fur back into place as it glares.

“What'd you do with the other shoe?” Buffy asks. 

“Ate it. There was blood.”

“And how'd you lot manage to take a shureen down, anyway?” he asks. 

“We are many.”

Buffy shudders, obviously seeing the same image he is of a hoard of the critters tearing someone into tiny bits with their little teeth. 

“You ate our kitchen rug,” she complains.

“There was blood.”

“Alright,” he says, “what do we owe you then?”

“ _ Two _ extra hairs. Next time. And you let me sleep it off here.”

“Alright,” she says, and walks into the bedroom to flop onto the bed as the kich-kich returns to the couch. “We're leaving again in a few hours,” she calls out, “keep an eye out, don't eat the furniture, and I'll give you a haircut when I get back. Deal?”

“Deal,” squeaks the kich.

 

 


	13. Swimming

 

 

** + **

Conversation fades away to occasional idle observations as they come in for landing, then dries up entirely as they leave the airport with the keys to a borrowed van. She sits in the passenger seat and frowns at the backpack on her lap, while Spike holds his door open with one foot, keys loose in his palm.

“Go on,” he says. “Waiting won't change facts.”

“What if…”  _ it didn't work? What if it  _ _ did _ _?  _ She'd have been hovering in person - over a grave, at a morgue, watching a body  _ somewhere _ \- but a single victim failing to rise wouldn't mean anything. Despite the consensus from magic users and seers, this won't seem real until it's been confirmed by the girls. She'd raised the idea that they should postpone the holiday - just for a while - stick close to HQ, wait for several weeks to pass without new vamps, maybe organise some ideas for the rest of the year… but found herself firmly outvoted and shuffled onto (another) plane to NZ as soon as she'd packed. Besides, if nothing’s hatched in the 24 hours they've just spent in the air, then nothing’s going to. So now she stares at her backpack and procrastinates over turning on her cellphone. 

Spike looks over at her. “ _ So wha _ t if? Make the call, then we can get on the road.”

She takes out her cell phone and dials Chicago. 

“Buffy?” Giles answers.

“Yes.”

“There's nothing. After those few on the night itself, we've got more than 48 hours clear, right across the globe. Congratulations.”

Her voice comes out measured and calm. “Thank you.” She closes the phone and puts it back in her bag, then takes off her sunglasses.

Spike pulls his leg in, closes the door, and slides the keys into the ignition. “We on holiday then?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounds strange to her now, but she doesn't know how it should sound. She grabs his sleeve suddenly. “What if--”  _ It's made something else go wrong? The slayers can't handle the existing vamps?  _ And, wriggling and writhing filthily where she keeps trying to stamp it down,  _ What will happen when you're the last one? _

He shrugs and turns the van on. “Then we'll deal. But that's not now.”

“I guess. It just… it seems too easy. I'm waiting for the fine print to hit us back. I mean, I know it's cost Willow a lot, but she seems genuinely happy with the trade. It feels like someone's still got to pay.”

He turns the van off again and takes her hand from his sleeve to hold as he turns to her. “ _ Buffy.  _ Ever occur to you lately that  _ you're _ someone? And look at you.” The muscles in his jaw tighten angrily and he looks away for a moment.

She closes her horrible eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't know this would… I know it's creepy, but I'm not going to lose the plot. Again.”

“Oh, luv, no. Look at me.” His voice is husky with emotion, and when she obeys she finds the anger replaced with a tender aching sorrow that kicks her in the chest. His hands cup around her cheeks, thumbs stroking under her eyes softly as he murmurs, “You’re hurt. And it ain't bloody fair. None of it. But you're not  _ creepy _ , silly. Just hate seeing you in pain. You always carry too much for us sorry sods, and we don't deserve any of it. Lemme do my job now, ok?”

“Ok,” she says in a small voice. “Ok.” 

He kisses her on the forehead, then releases her and turns the van on again. “Could climb in the back and have a nap? Be a few hours before we stop for day.” 

There's a bed there, behind the curtain, windows painted out safely as part of the backpacker conversion. “No,” she says, “I'd rather be up here with you.”

He wriggles around to get his coat off and passes it to her, but she's too warm to want a blanket. She bundles it up to hold to her chest and under her head as she lies down across the seat, head by his thigh. She buries her nose down into the leather, through smoke and her perfume and a hint of blood and beer, to that subtle undercurrent that's all him - tingly like overproof whiskey, smooth like honey, ethereal like moonlight; soothing and stimulating and intoxicating all at once. Between gear changes his hand settles on her head, stroking like always, the rhythm joining with the steady vibration of the engine beneath her seat until she feels herself drift off.

For the first time in days, she dreams. Across the familiar arena, Sineya looks back at her, inscrutable and statuary. The girls between them talk in pairs and groups, or wander alone with their eyes to the stars, looking at visions only they can see. Faith walks hand-in-hand with Dana, scowling at anyone who gets in their way, but smiling when Dana speaks. In the ranks of the fallen on either side she recognises Beth, former newbie of team Wisconsin, and drops her eyes to her toes before forcing herself to meet the girl's face and bow respectfully. Beth smiles serenely and whispers across to her -  _ I’m not really her. But she thanks you.  _ Buffy nods, and looks out over the crowd before her once more. Then, with a deep breath, she turns around to face Maddy.

The girl waits before a stone archway behind her, shoulders squared and chin lifted just as they had been when she'd faced her at the well. Her eyes widen slightly with fear when Buffy scrutinises her, but she holds herself firm to stare back. 

“Do you really want this?” Buffy asks. “Things are heavier inside.”

“I know. I want it.”

“You won't ever be able to go back.”

“I know.” She steps forward to stand almost toe-to-toe with Buffy, separated only by a band of shadow from the archway. “I choose it.”

Buffy reaches across the barrier of shadow to take Maddy’s hand in her own, then leads her through the archway into the arena. Something tingles in her clasped palm as she does so, a prickle of power charging the air before she releases Maddy’s hand for the girl to descend and join the others. 

Buffy looks back over her shoulder at the archway. Vague shapes shift through the fog beyond it along with muffled words of conversation. She moves along to where she can watch both arch and arena comfortably, then sits herself down on the sand and drops her hands into her lap. Crossing below, Vi catches her eye to throw her a mock salute, and she winks back with a grin.

When she opens her eyes the van has got darker; they must have left streetlights behind with the city. Spike is singing softly to himself, a lilting rumble almost buried under the hum of the engine, his finger silent as it taps the rhythm on the wheel. She listens for words until she can whisper out the next lines,  _ would you bathe with me, in the stream of life… _

“ _ Hey, _ ” he murmurs, “didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't.  _ Would you go away to another land, walk a thousand miles through the burning sand…” _

“You know it. Beach is only ninety miles though. We'll have to do it eleven times.”

She smiles and pulls herself up to sit. “Where are we?” 

“About to stop at the last town. Should be someone waiting at the butcher's there to fill our fridge.”

“I need to call Giles again- not to check. I think I've just activated Maddy.”

“Yeah? Productive sleep then.”

“Power napping,” she smiles. 

“She seemed like she needed it.”

“She chose.”

“Way it should be.”

“Way it is now.”

He turns to look at her for a long moment, soft eyes full of wonder. “You’re--”

“Watch the road!” she squeaks. 

He turns back to it and chuckles. “I ever tell you that you’re amazing, luv?”

“Once or twice.” New questions hover on her tongue,  _ what will this mean? _ But they can wait. Let him do his job. She shifts to lean her back against the door and her feet against his thigh. “Sing to me? Please?”

He drops his hand to her feet and rubs up and down the arch of one as he starts the song over. “ _ Would you lay with me in a field of stone…” _

The gravel road opens onto a wide expanse of sand sloping almost imperceptibly into a distant sea to the west and stretching out to fade to the horizon at north and south. Spike turns north along the beach, and she sits up to study the endless black sea and star-glittered sky. 

“It's big,” she says, “and empty.”

“  _ ‘Oh, ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,  _ _   
_ _ Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;’ ” _

“Shakespeare?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Anyway, good place to unleash.”

It is, she thinks; here she could howl her rage at the sky and boil the sea around her, and both would be as insignificant as blinking in the vastness of it.

When the sky begins to lighten in the east he turns the van up into the tussock-covered dunes and pulls to a stop in a flat hollow there. They open doors and climb out to stretch themselves before he comes around to join her, sliding his arms around her waist from behind and pulling her close. There's a salty ozone-ey taste to the air and morning dew on the sand beneath her toes, everything clean and cold and comfortingly indifferent to these two small interlopers. He rests his head on her shoulder, then gradually becomes heavier against her back until she pulls his arms loose and turns to face him. He blinks a few times and smiles for her, and she leans up to kiss him softly, a chaste little touch to that plush velvety bottom lip. “You’re just about dead on your feet,” she whispers.

“Always dead. Still on my feet,” he murmurs back.

“I know. But come to bed.” She takes his hand from her hip to hold, and opens the side door to the van that's home for the next however-long. There's a double mattress filling most of it, with storage underneath and a kitchen space at one end. She climbs up to lie on the far side of the bed, and he closes the door and flicks the locks before sitting on the edge to take off his boots. That accomplished, he crawls over to where she can pull his head down to rest on her chest as their arms and legs wind around to familiar holds on each other. She kisses the top of his head and whispers, “ _ Go to sleep.” _

“Don't go anywhere,” he mumbles.

“I won't. Promise.”

He makes that soft little almost-purr, then relaxes into his complete stillness of deep sleep. 

With the rising sun her headache comes thumping back to the fore, until she's gritting her teeth in the effort to keep her breathing steady so as not to wake him. Finally she has to do something, and edges herself free by millimetres until she can turn around to put her head by his feet and dig in her bag for Kyra’s tin. She sneaks glances at his face as she smokes, risking the light for brief moments of basking. His fierce worry of the past few days has melted away in sleep, features softened into that vulnerable sweetness he hides so carefully on the outside.  _ Oh, you beautiful creature. You're too good to me. _ That feeling of great swamping love sweeps over her again, raw and almost painfully intense, bringing tears to her eyes and a lump to her throat. When he next inhales those long charcoal lashes flutter slightly on his cheeks as his brows tighten towards a frown, and he mumbles something wordless and frightened as his fingers twitch where she'd slithered from them - dreams too easily corrupted by the scent of her tears. He hates to sleep alone almost as much as he hates to let her know about it, determined to take the nightmares of memory that haunt him as only his fair due; she knows he still worries, sometimes, that she'll be tainted somehow by the weight of his history. Can never accept that he deserves her comfort for the things that shame him, but he has come to accept her need for solace in comforting him, and so nowadays he seeks her out in half-sleep, or calls her on waking;  _ lean on me so I can lean on you,  _ she reminds him, and things are lighter together. 

She wriggles around again, burrowing carefully under his arm and pressing up under his chin, and his fingers tighten needily on her for a minute before relaxing into sound sleep once again, hint of a smile on his lips. 

She half-dozes through the day, listening to the roll of the ocean as it shifts with the tides. In the afternoon she hears an engine far down the beach, and follows it closely as it approaches and passes, tense until it fades away again. She feels so vulnerable with the light everywhere outside; instead of a ready escape, it's become something to fear, able to strip her of strength and waiting to stab in through any opening. The dark is such a fragile thing; she hadn't realised how effectively she’d blasted away all sense of safety every time she’d kicked in the door to his old crypt. And yet he'd reached for the fire of her even as it burned him. She'd never understood his insistence on flaunting danger in inadequately-covered dashes through the sun, but she thinks maybe she gets it now, and sees the strength he takes from stubborn defiance of pain to have the forbidden. 

As dusk approaches she falls into a heavier sleep, waking up to find him watching her with his head on one hand and that soft smile still in place. 

“Do you know,” she tells him, “that you have a smile that's just for me? A special Buffy-smile.”

It grows into something confident and amused, making his eyes sparkle. He leans his mouth to her ear to whisper, “You gave it to me. Mine now.”

She wants to tickle him, make happy rumbly sounds come from him and lick the line of his jaw. But she still feels too sharp, too dangerous, claws too lightly sheathed to caress with, so she hugs him carefully instead, and he makes the happy sounds anyway. 

“Ready to drive more?” he asks. “Another half hour up the beach and we'll have the bush at our backs ‘stead of more sand.”

“Are we following a map? I thought we were getting lost.”

“Getting lost to find ourselves? Terribly clichéd, Slayer.”

“I could never be lost with you here,” she proclaims in a sickly sappy voice; playfulness belying the warm current of truth beneath.

His voice is caramel poured over sandpaper, rich and delicious. “Lose myself in you all the time.”

“You win,” she purrs. “And yes, let's do that.”

 

** × **

The bush is scrubby and thin, windswept wildling pines and some sort of native shrub-trees with a pungent, clean aroma. Everything has needles for leaves, even the tall grasses brandishing sharply serrated edges to the elements. He coaxes the van up into the edge of it, then they collect branches to camouflage it roughly from anyone on the beach below. 

He inspects the cooking facilities and throws suggestions at her, but she turns them all down in favour of eating dry cereal from the box. “Holiday breakfast,” she says, “anything goes. I hope we've packed chocolate?”

“Enough to last one stoner slayer for six months,” he teases, but she doesn't bite. “How's your head?”

“Better with the light gone.”

_ God, this is so wrong.  _ She needs it like a daisy, he's certain - sure to pale and fade away if kept in the dark. Reminds him of the first bird Dru brought home, a little yellow thing that twittered and sang at dawn that first day. When the light never entered their room it fell silent, hopping about nervously, and by day three only huddled on the floor in the corner of its cage. The ever-slowing beat of its heart grated on him nightly until he grabbed it from the cage and took it to the indirect morning light of the back doorstep, where it lay on his open palm in a messy heap of feathers, eyes half closed and gasping weakly. He'd prodded it with a finger a couple of times, trying to urge the stupid thing to pull itself together, fly away. Lost cause though, so he'd snapped its neck and tossed it on the lawn for the next passing scavenger. 

Living things need the sun like they need air.

Her hand brushes his cheek as she whispers, “Where’d you go?”

He shakes it off to smile. “Nevermind. Here.” He pulls a can of peaches from the shelf and holds it out to her. “They're made of sun. Eat them.” 

She touches the top of the can and waits for him to meet her eyes, holding him there until he takes a breath to match hers and feels the smile relax.

“Ok. Fork me.” 

He passes one, and she cracks the tab open as he pours blood into a mug and swaps the pot on the stove for a kettle. Outside some sort of creature makes a low booming sound in the distance, and when the kettle boils they take cups of cocoa out to the edge of the raised dune to sit and watch the sea shimmer in the moonlight.

  
  


The next morning the sky clouds over and a misty rain begins to fall, building to a blasting downpour by the afternoon. Below the wind and pinging of rain on metal the ocean makes a deep steady roar, sounding closer up the beach in its anger. They pay it no heed as they snuggle down under the blankets to whisper nonsense to each other, and just after midnight the storm blows itself out. The beach is changed when they trail down it in the wee hours, sand pockmarked by raindrops and littered with massive kelp plants coming in on the tide. She finds a string of tiny fishing lures embedded in one, and he snaps the hooks off a pair then feeds them onto her earrings, sparkly little fishes swinging to and fro above her graceful neck as they write each other's names in the sand. 

  
  


Day by day the blood fades from her eyes, until they look normal but for a stubborn little red mark in the right. She stops cringing under the covers at sunrise, but still lies quietly behind him in bed throughout the daylit hours, ill at ease when not distracted. He tickles and teases and taunts her carefully, but she acquiesces too quietly to everything. So he holds her instead, and she lets herself cling tightly to him in sleep. 

Supplies start to run low, most urgently of blood. He moots the idea of her driving them into town during shopping hours - plenty of open sand here to learn on - but she insists the column shift would be beyond her even if the sky was dark enough to let her see. He lets the excuse stand. 

The next night he catches a scent on the breeze, warm and living and life-giving. “Feel like hunting, Slayer?” he asks. 

“Not the horses!” she says, with a look of horror. They've seen a small herd of them several times, coming down to roll in the sand just after dusk.

“Nope. Can smell a boar. Might postpone having to go anywhere for a couple more days…”

She bites her lip, considering. “I guess that makes sense. I'll stay here.”

He cocks his head at her, but she looks down, hands plucking nervously at the hem of her shirt. He sighs. “Alright. But you're going to have to trust yourself to let go again eventually.”

“I know. I just… I was so  _ angry _ .”

“And yet you didn't let it control you. Stop worrying, pet. You'll not hurt anyone.”

She keeps her eyes firmly down, so he sighs again and turns for the scrub. 

The scent trails parallel to the beach, through low tunnels in the head-high grasses and around the edges of the more open ground. Before long he feels her behind him, soundless and almost far enough back to avoid detection, and grins to himself. Around the next corner the scent takes a sudden dive into thicker brush, and he can hear his prey snapping sticks somewhere ahead as it hurries, some sixth sense warning it of danger. He glides ever nearer behind it, silent and deadly, and the thrill of it has him running his tongue over his fangs in anticipation of tearing savagely through hot flesh and draining it dry.  _ God, it's been so long.  _ Feels almost giddy with the rush of it. The boar’s just ahead now, running flat out, and as they burst into the open again he sees it, almost waist high with a thick black coat, head down as it bolts.

He tackles it at the ribs, bringing it crashing hard to the ground on its shoulder as he dodges flailing hooves to dive for its throat. It sweeps its head down and towards him, covering its exposed neck and slamming what feels like a blunt pocket knife through the skin over his ribs. With a curse of surprised pain he swings a leg around and kicks it in the chest hard enough to shove them both back away from each other, rolling clear of  _ whatever-the-fuck-that-was  _ and bouncing to his feet to tackle it again. 

There's a flash of gold, a thud and a particular  _ scrunch _ , then Buffy drops the two pocket-knife tusks from her hands to let the boars head thunk loosely to the ground. She jumps off its shoulders and slams a palm against his chest as she grabs the hole in his shirt and tears it open to the bottom, growling furiously at the bloody hole before shoving him away again and stalking off towards the beach. 

He watches her go, lips tight. There's a final quiet  _ thud _ from the boar's chest, and he looks back down at it, out at Buffy stomping across the sand, then back down. He crouches by its neck, grimaces at the fur, then tears his fangs through and lets the blood seep out to smother it before starting to drink and  _ oh holy fuck, is this better than that butcher crap. _

  
  


He catches up with her half a mile back down the beach, stalking along shin-deep in each wave. She doesn't acknowledge his presence when he drops in on the beach side, but before long starts shooting angry side glances at the seeping red down his ribs. Finally he cuts in front of her, planting his feet and stopping her with a hard grip over her collarbone. 

“Stop,” he growls. 

She ducks and twists free with a huff, so he swings his leg full force into the back of her knees to buckle them. One hand slaps down in the water to catch herself, then she bounces off it and springs up to slam her fist at his jaw. At the last second she checks the impact to something less than the bone-breaking force of her beginning swing, eyes jumping wide. She whirls to run, but he grabs her trailing ponytail and yanks down as he kicks her feet out again, and they land hard in the shallow water, a yelp spilling from her. She twists to flee again, but he shoves her face into the water and leans in to snarl at her -  _ bloody fight me. _ She explodes into motion, an elbow smashing back into his eye and a knee driving into his stomach, and for a split second he reconsiders the wisdom of pushing her so much so soon, but too late now as he blocks the next hit and gets one of his own in. Blows hampered by the water, they roll several times trying to get a pin on each other before she grabs him by the back of his hair with both hands and tugs his head back as she lands on his waist,  _ fuck you _ hissing from her lips. Before she can jump away again he shoves her arms out to the sides and slams his lips into hers as she falls forward, scraping teeth together for a second before she kisses him back just as hard. He grabs her hips and pulls her harder against him, the heat of her palpable through the wet denim of his jeans as she presses herself against his erection with a gasp. She releases his hair to rip the remains of his shirt free, and he growls into her mouth as her fingers knead into his chest. The next wave catches him on the cheek, so he shoves her back to sit upright on his thighs as he tugs free the buttons on his jeans and pushes the wet fabric of her skirt higher to bare her naked skin beneath. She grabs his hand and yanks him up to her, then wraps her hot little palm tight around his cock as she shifts her knees and guides him in with a growl-turned-moan that echoes the sound in his own throat. 

In all the rushing turbulence of the edge of the waves she's an unfaltering element of her own for him to hold to, warm and solid where the world is cold and unstable. Her claws touch deliciously on the border of pain, a quiver running through them as she races towards climax with his name on her sea-sprayed lips and vulnerability in her eyes. He follows her crashing over the edge as the world spins away, and for an indefinable moment they float panting together through the starlight. 

“That faceful of water was a low blow,” she grumbles as she pulls him to his feet. 

“You stole my kill,” he shoots back. 

She points her finger then jabs him in the chest with it, exasperated in a heartbeat. “You let it poke a hole in you.”

He flings his hands out to the sides. “Didn't know the damn thing was armed now, did I?”

She glares up at him, teeth gritted and fists tight, and he presses his lips tight to try and hold back the smirk that's tugging laughter on the corners of his mouth. 

“Go on,” he chortles, “go all out and stamp your foot, it'll splash right up that skirt.”

A frown flickers across her brow and then she gives in to a grin too, and kicks a spray of water at him before running shrieking up the sand. With the laughter slowing her down he catches up in no time, and grabs a handful of sand as he spins around in front of her with his arm held back threateningly. She throws her hands out and backpedals frantically, squeaking, “No don't! No sand! I'm sorry!”

He opens his hand casually to let it sift free, and she comes forward again, reaching out to touch lightly against the top of his cheekbone where her elbow had caught him earlier. “I am sorry,” she says, “ _ really _ don't like being shoved in the water.”

“I know that,” he grins, rolling his eyes. “Didn't hurt me. Well, no more than I like.”

“Masochist.”

“Vampire.” He brushes a smear of wet sand from her earlobe. “I'm sorry too. Well actually, no, I'm not. Unrepentant as the night is long is me.” However much he'd like to boast responsibility via that mind-blowing fuck, the ease in her now looks like more than post-shag tranquillisation. She's reached for the reins at last and found them ready and waiting. “We good?” 

“Yeah, I think I am,” she smiles. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, my dovey. Pushing the slayer to breaking point happens to be a particular skill of mine. Along with prodding her in every other way.”

“Pig.”

“Was tasty. Should do it again sometime.”

He mirrors her eye roll, and they laugh then run for the van and dry clothing.

 

** + **

She peels her wet shirt over her head then pauses to watch him trying to fight free of his wet jeans, his torn shirt long abandoned. He finally kicks his last foot free and looks over ready to admonish her for any silent laughter, but ire dissolves into a lecherous smirk as she swiftly retracts the tongue that was unconsciously sliding across her still kiss-swollen lips. She tries to toss her (wet) hair and ignore the blush as she steps away and opens the door to the van, but stills before the doorway when she feels him prowl up behind her. She closes her eyes and concentrates on the tingle-sense of him as he places a hand on the doorframe to either side of her head and leans, just close enough to blow softly on the back of her neck without touching anywhere. A tremble runs from his breath on her skin to spark down her spine and pool between her legs, and she arches back, seeking contact. He tries to lean away, to tease, but his cock brushes against the dip in her ass and freezes him in place with a catch in his breath. She stays perfectly still and whispers,  _ touch me, Spike _ , and he surrenders with a groan, pressing into her behind as one hand splays down over her stomach to stroke between her legs.  _ You little minx  _ he whispers in her ear, and she tries to reply but only manages a needy little mewl that might be his name. 

  
  


When they finally make it inside she burrows herself into a ball of blankets on the bed, chill starting to seep in. He lights the stove for the kettle, the blue and orange gas flames casting dancing shadows on the walls of their little cave as the colour flickers and plays across his opaline skin. He sits on the edge of the bed to take out mugs and cocoa tin, and she watches his fingers move, the way he holds everything with that precise delicacy. She wriggles her blanket ball up behind him and then draws him into it, pressing her chest to his back to stretch her blanket-wings out around them both and net the heat radiating from the stove. 

When the kettle boils he takes out a candle and lights it from the flame before turning off the gas, and she presses her cheek to the sheltering hollow between his shoulder blades as her eyes adjust to the increased light. When it doesn't seem too bright she slides up to look over his shoulder at the small flame, then presses a kiss behind his ear to watch the way his lashes flutter moonshadows and that soft smile comes out. He slides his fingertips down her arms until he reaches her hands, then takes them with her blanket-wings and folds them back around herself as he moves forward to makes the drinks. 

He shakes the last crumbs into their cups, then waves the empty cocoa tin at her before dropping it in the bin and adding water, the last of the milk, a handful of the seemingly never-ending marshmallow supply. Maybe tomorrow night, she tells herself. If he drives them into town she’ll brave the shops for them during the day, and he can bring them back as soon as darkness returns. At least the days are short here, the peculiar winter-in-July of the southern hemisphere giving them five extra hours of darkness to shelter in. He moves the cups within reach of their pillows, then picks up a dry shirt to cover his ocean-cold skin, but she stops that with a hand on his arm and opens her blanket-wings again to tug him inside with her.

 

** x **

Slayer winds herself around him with limbs and blanket and he melts into the heat of her with a moan of sybaritic pleasure. The candlelight returns the deep warm tones to her skin that moonshine fades away, the gold of a Californian desert and the soft pinks of living blood. He teases out the ends of her hair to fan across her back, damp and salty, darkened to tawny caramel by the dampness, and as she smiles against his chest at the familiar pattern of his touch something that's been pinching inside of him for weeks finally relaxes. He breathes in deeply through his nose, the intoxicating essence of the tiny goddess in his arms suffusing him everywhere with something more vital than oxygen ever felt. She matches him in his sigh of contentment, then half releases him to move into his side as he reaches for their mugs.

They drink without speaking aloud, wiping bits of melted marshmallow from the sides of cups and watching each other with pure hedonism. As the sun comes up they drop mugs to the floor and she wriggles even closer again, kissing along the line of his shoulder and up under his chin to make him purr. He nibbles and nuzzles at the hollow of her collarbone, the curve of her waist, the arch of her foot, and hours pass as one languorous dream where nothing exists beyond the edge of the bed. 

And the next night he drives them into town.

 

 

 


	14. ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who's read the previous fic and is now thinking, if they're in NZ, what about...?
> 
> Some things don't go in words.

 

 

 

 


	15. Ending

 

 

 

** % **

Xander offers and offers again to fly back to the castle with her, but she brushes him off each time. Things are feeling good between them after the last week of close company, and she gets the feeling it's time to pull back and re-evaluate before it has a chance to fall south. Besides, there's something she needs to do first.

In Seattle she catches a cab from the airport to a coffee shop downtown, settling into a window seat with her laptop and a pot of green tea. She keeps an eye on the doors of the office building across the street just in case, but sure enough when the modestly dressed older woman steps through them she heads straight for the coffee shop. As she enters Willow blocks her face with an arm and a duck towards her keyboard, but the low-heeled shoes go clip-clippety past her without pausing. 

As her mother waits to order, Willow turns slowly to watch her at an angle. She looks exactly the same - no new wrinkles in the almost three years since Willow’s seen her, no scars or missing parts, even the same haircut. She wonders what her mother would think of her own appearance; what have three years left showing on  _ her _ face? 

If her mother could recognise her, that is.

It'd seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Get her parents safely away from Sunnydale and all its danger. Make sure they wouldn't have to worry the next time she was hurt.  _ Stop her mother's intermittent moments of nagging. Be an independent adult with no one to answer to. _

She'd worked the magic carefully, aiming for far more subtlety than anything she'd ever attempted in the past. A nudge here, a hint there (and, well, all right then, there had been a wee shove at the end when it seemed subtlety wasn't going to take her far enough) - and then Willow’s parents had conveniently forgotten about their daughter and developed a sudden urge to move north. The ‘ _ move north _ ’ part had been the hard bit - they'd lived in Sunnydale for their whole lives, and spent very little of them on Willow. 

‘ _ Promotion opportunity, _ ’ she'd told everyone, ‘ _ had to jump on it quick. I'll visit them. _ ’ And she had, as soon as Tara had had something unavoidable planned for a weekend. She'd found her mother working in a small private practice here; her father behind a desk doing basic land transfers and estate management - a step-down in pay, but also in stress level. It would be perfect for them, she'd assured herself. And left them to it.

She knows Xander had his suspicions; he'd even broached the subject once, one of those first nights fresh out of SunnyD. An accidental three a.m. meeting in the Hyperion’s kitchen when she'd come in search of water to find him lurking in a corner in the dark.  _ Drink? _ she'd offered as she filled her glass. 

_ Where's your parents?  _ he'd asked in response, voice low and serious.  _ They'll have seen it on the news. _

She'd frozen, trying to work out how much he could have guessed, but hampered by the dark and the hour. 

_ Seattle…  _ she’d told him eventually,  _ they're in Seattle. Safe. _

He hadn't said anything else, just watched her from the shadows until she'd taken her glass and snuck away. 

Downstairs she'd tiptoed into the office in search of phone directories, but found Buffy and Spike curled up in the desk chair there, sleeping the sleep of the undead and resurrected in an intertwined ball no one could ever hope to penetrate. The pair had only caught up with the rest of them a few hours earlier, exhausted but smiling, with hands seemingly superglued to each other and something changed about them both. She'd tiptoed out again and put the call aside for another day. 

Which turned into a year.

Her mother pays at the counter and takes a seat at a table just behind Willow, setting down her handbag and removing a magazine and pen. Her own pot of green tea is delivered along with a bran muffin, and for the next twenty minutes Willow watches her sip tea and take bites of the muffin and fill boxes on the crossword with her quick calm strokes. As she has a thousand times before. Then her mother checks her watch, puts away the magazine and the pen, and walks from the cafe without a sideways glance.

Willow blinks at her through the window.  _ Wait-- _ she wants to say,  _ I…? _ Her mother has to wait while a line of cars passes, and taking that as a sign Willow snatches her own pen from the table and runs outside.  _ Wait!  _ she does say now,  _ Mo-- iss. You forgot your pen. _

Her mother looks at the pen, thrown. Red bic ballpoint, same as she always used.  _ Oh, _ she says,  _ thank you.  _

She reaches for it, and as their hands brush Willow twitches as a jolt of something leaps skin-to-skin. She waits for her mother to comment, to ask her,  _ don't I know you? I feel like we share a connection.  _ But she's already turned away, hurrying across the street between the traffic. At the far side she stops, and Willow perks up tall to see better, but Sheila Rosenberg only secures the pen in her handbag and then continues on her way.

_ Got what you wanted,  _ Willow whispers to herself.  _ She's happy and healthy and not missing a thing.  _

She collects her things from the coffee shop and hails a cab back to the airport.

 

The height of apartments and planes and the concrete of cities and roads had obscured her sense of the web of power -and therefore her contact with the strings of her own- but when she steps from the car into the castle's yard it surges back into clarity. She toes off her sneakers and socks to stand skin-to-dirt and fairly sighs with happiness at the stability of it. This compulsion to  _ touch _ the earth, the grass, the dew-damp and the midday heat has been a steady urge since the well and seems unlikely to go anytime soon. But. It feels so  _ good  _ to indulge it.

Pedro comes out to greet her and looks at her feet as he approaches, and she tries to exude an aura of mystical-witchy-communing rather than the dirty-hippy look she probably has going on. It must work, because he grabs her in for a kiss on the cheek before taking her bag and waving her to go inside first. Or maybe that's just him.

 

The castle has been ticking along smoothly in her absence, lead slayer running the place with her unique rough-and-ready practicality that seems to keep everyone moving and therefore out of trouble. There are minor questions to settle, news to trade, and then everyone settles back to daily life and the planning of a hunting trip later in the week.

 

On field trip hunting day she farewells them with warnings and admonishments to  _ please be careful _ , worrying over the competitive streak that's entered their eyes with the knowledge of Countdown to Extermination, but reassured by how well they'd handled themselves at the well. She drifts through the quiet castle and out to the sea at its back, then lies on the grass to spend a luxurious day tracing lines of the web from beneath her out around the globe. 

She's out there again when the girls return the following day, and as she tracks their approach in faint trails of power she realises: they could pour  _ all  _ their power out like this, if they wanted to. Separate it - with the scythe maybe? - from where it lodges in each of them, and spread it out gently to fade away into the greater whole. The London coven has had some success with hiding potential; perhaps they could guide it the surface to be wiped off and into the earth, for the girls keen to reject it.

 

** % **

The day after Willow leaves he bumps into Jem at the corner store, and adds her bag to his own on one arm so he can offer her the other as Spike would. Feels silly doing it; suspects he'll never be able to emulate the smooth flirtatiousness that makes her blush happily at Spike, and worries he comes off more like he's patronising her for her advanced age. But she tucks her arm in his tightly and says, _you dear boy, just who I needed._ _How goes the photography?_

He's added a basic digital camera to take staff ID photos and for emailing pictures of various supernatural odds and ends to experts in other centres, but prefers the original manual setup for the important things. In his spare-room-come-darkroom he watches the smokey images develop in their trays of water; girls lying back on mats in the training room, chocolate in hand; the sparrow that likes to shelter on his window ledge; a smile here and a pair of clasped hands there. In soft focus and shades of grey everything somehow looks more real - beyond real - the secret heart of their lives held in these shutter-snap moments. 

At Jem’s urging he fetches the latest folder full, and sips tea as she studies them at her kitchen table. On the bottom is the sparrow, and she smiles in recognition. “He sits on my ledge too. You must make me a copy. And you must let me start paying you before I run out of wall.”

He waves her off again, and studies the almost-full lounge wall. “Between the leaves and the coffee?”

“Perfect,” she agrees. “You know, seem to have a real gift for it. You really should think about taking a portfolio down to the gallery.”

He shrugs, still uncertain, though he's pondered it anew each time she tells him this.

“What's it like?” she asks quietly. “Seeing the world in mono? If you'll forgive me asking. Your friend gave me the impression it's a recent change.”

“Just over a year ago now. It's… sometimes I almost think it's a blessing. That I saw too much with the other one. And that it's right; that I should have this hole staring back at me in the mirror every morning - that it makes it tangible, won't ever let me forget. Other times… people see it, and they go all big with the sympathy, and I wanna say, _it's just an eye._ Seems too cheap… And sometimes, I just wish I could stop walking into things. I can't-- ” _fight at her side. Stand on their left. See the hits coming (have I ever?). But I can… be the Xander-shaped friend. Roughly enough._ And somehow, that's begun feeling like something very worthwhile. “It's an adjustment.” After a moment, he remembers himself and edges back on his chair with a nervous laugh. “Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to go all heavy on you.”

Her turn to shrug. “I asked. It's good to talk about these things.”

“So they say.”

“It is. And to learn about them. Different perspectives, you know?”

He nods.

“Course you do.” She pats him on the arm smartly. “Well, you’ve put a smile on my face with the way you see through that viewfinder. And now I've put one on yours. Look after it; have a biscuit.”

He laughs and takes a cookie.

“Good boy. And where have my favourite couple gone off too now? Poor Buffy did not look at all well the other night.”

“They're on holiday. I don't know how long they'll be; until she's feeling better, I suppose. She-- She's been working too hard. Too long. She... has a lot of responsibilities.”

She smiles. “Yes, I see that. William will be glad for the chance to look after her properly.”

“Yeah... I used to worry - partly jealousy, at first - but I thought she deserved better. He wasn't always like this on the surface. But I guess she saw it in him. He’s… they bring something out in each other.”

“He's a good man. Whatever else he may be.”

He looks up at her cautiously, hoping to God his face isn't showing anything beyond passing confusion.

“Oop, I'm not supposed to know, am I?” she says in a bright whisper, then taps the side of her nose with one finger and picks up her tea. “On second thoughts, perhaps we should hang the sparrow near the window? He might like to see himself.”

 

** % **

There's a knock on the door in the hour before dawn, but it's a tentative little tap that her half-conscious brain shoves aside in order to return to the real business of  _ sleeping _ . When she wakes to morning sun and the clatter of kitchen things it's long forgotten on the wings of dreams.

_ Sunday _ , she works out,  _ yah! _ Sunday means waffle breakfasts attired in dressing gowns and followed by a Coronation Street marathon, fluffy blankets on the couch and foamy lattes from the espresso machine. Sunday is the day for non-work, non-demons (excepting surprise visits from friends), non-reality, and regressing to the child she never actually was and the one Andrew usually is.

He wears the black dressing gown at the stove, and she thinks again that they must get a bow tie to pin to it. Later he'll change to the royal blue Tardis one she gave him for Christmas, but it's much too treasured to risk waffle syrup and hot appliances. Her own robe is milk chocolate and plush, and makes her feel like a fuzzy brown bear as she curls into her seat at the table. 

“ _ What  _ is the answer?” Andrew asks.

“42 waffles!” (It doesn't matter what the question is).

Andrew sets cups beneath the coffee machine, then crosses to the pantry. “Order?”

“Maple me!” she says, and gets ready to catch. He throws that one carefully after last week's mess.  _ Vanilla! Cinnamon! Peanut butter!  _ and he lobs them with increasing sloppiness until finally she misses the golden syrup and cringes as the tin lands safely on the lino. The competition for Most Outrageous Topping ran to completion many months ago, but having  _ everything  _ out on the table is part of the ritual and therefore still necessary. 

The waffles go on a platter in the middle, frothy milk joins the coffee in their cups, and she picks up a fork before Andrew says,  _ Do you hear something?  _

She listens, smacking down the gut-rush of fear that surges at the words. Quiet… birds… a soft snore.  _ Snore? _ She takes her fork with her to the door, then picks up the modified cattle prod they keep in the umbrella stand by it before motioning him to open up. He twists the deadbolt silently and cracks open the door, and she breathes out a sigh of relief at the rumpled form of Toby sitting asleep against the wall of the entrance. 

Andrew goes to close the door again, rare anger on his face, but she slaps him away and steps forward. She flicks the safety back on on the cattleprod, then jabs him hard in the ribs. He jerks awake with a yelp, and she boots him in the leg with her bare foot as he jumps to a more defensive sit. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” she demands. 

He gulps, shamefaced and entirely lacking in his usual affected cool. “I want to come back,” he says, “I-- I made a mistake.”

She sneers down at him coldly. “What's to say we want you? We haven't got an opening for an unreliable asshole right now.”

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles, “I know I screwed up. But I thought maybe there's something I could do, some way I could still help… maybe one of the offices needs a cleaner? I'll go anywhere. I just… I'm sorry. I didn't realise what it all meant.”

She looks at Andrew, and he tightens his chin but steps aside from the doorway. So she jabs Toby in the side to make another startled yelp and tells him, “Get your sorry ass inside before you drag down our property values. And don't touch our waffles.”

They return to the table, and Toby fills the sink with bubbles to start washing mixing bowls and spoons, posture hunched and ashamed. 

Andrew plays with the waffle on his plate, pushing it around tight-lipped and determinedly not looking at the bench behind him. Finally, he stands and walks to the cupboard, grabs another plate, and bangs it down at an empty seat. He puts a waffle on it, then starts adding things, syrup and spices and essence and peanut butter, and Dawn joins in with jelly and chocolate sauce and salt and marshmallow fluff until the waffle can't be seen beneath it all. 

“Toby,” he says, “Sit. Eat of the food of redemption and confess your tale of woe.”

Toby lowers himself to his seat carefully, then picks up a knife and fork. He tackles the spreads and fluff first, then tries to catch enough of the syrup with each bit of waffle to make a dent in the pool of it. When the waffle runs out though, there's still a puddle of syrup and sauce on his plate, so he switches to fingers until it's clean. Then he picks up their cups and goes to reset the espresso machine, and starts a stilted explanation.

 

** + **

While they wait for the shops to open she turns on her cellphone hopefully, relieved when it picks up a couple of bars of reception here in town.  _ Really  _ did not fancy standing in a phone booth. Text messages arrive from Dawn, Xander, Willow, Vi; Giles still refusing to learn then. He's probably put some kind of mystical tracking beacon on her to avoid the ‘ _ impersonal and open to corruption by malicious blah blah blah…’   _ He  _ has _ left messages on the answering machine though: everything good, take your time. Times fourteen. She calls him back first.

‘Everything good’ seems a fair assessment really; the supernatural are keeping their heads down as the news spreads from the vampires, things quieter than they'd dare hope. Council has had approaches already by a few more astute vamps - white flags raising with the battle lost. He's given them orders to detox and await details of treaty talks; suggests giving it at least a month before they take anything the undead have got to say seriously. Maddy’s been put through her paces at HQ and found extremely competent - and when tested alongside Giselle, the two have revealed the sort of smooth and efficient teamwork that could only have developed through extensive practice, confirming her suspicions. The HQ magic team are refining their workings for locating potentials, while Xander heads the working group tasked with setting an official protocol for contacting and expositioning them.

“And you?” she asks afterwards.

“Well, I'm negotiating a--”

“No, Giles. How  _ are _ you?”

He falls silent. “I'm good, Buffy. Feeling… like that light at the end of the tunnel is brighter than I ever dared dream. What you've achieved…” He fades off into that soft inwards gaze she can picture so clearly. 

“Yeah yeah, don't get hallmark on me. And don't remind me about ‘brighter worlds’, I'm about to brave the daylight with just a cap and my trusty sunnies.”

“You will heal, with time. And don't even think about work until you have, I forbid it.” He sounds more assurance-seeking than assuring.

“I know, I know. We're just doing a supply run then it's back to the wilds. It's… you chose well. Thanks.”

 

She buys blood and beer and chocolate milk, non-perishable food and a magazine full of ridiculous-sounding stories, ‘ _ My husband was my long-lost twin!’ ‘Man who punched attacking shark in the face then stitched own leg before heading to the pub speaks out!’ _ . 

“Should track him down with a job offer,” says Spike back at the beach. “Sounds like watcher material.”

He whispers in her ear at dusk,  _ come with me now and take my hand, let us be wild creatures of sea and sand,  _ and they roam the mooncast beach until dawn, feeling like the only people on earth. At his suppressed nudging she begins staying out longer, watching colour spread across the world as the sun rises. Finally one day she edges out in the afternoon sun, studying her pale arms in surprise before finding a comfortable hollow in the ground to stretch out and bare her skin to the blue sky.

 

** x **

She returns with sun-kissed warmth in her skin and in her scent, aglow with life and aglitter in the green sea of her eyes. She melts into bed and he licks the blessing from her with long strokes of his tongue and murmured words between.

 

if  
loving you be sin  
then abandon me to my sin forever  
for I shall never repent.

yet  
should loving you be virtue  
crown me now most virtuous one  
that I may carry your halo above all.

 

She puzzles for a minute, then asks,  _ who? _

_ Depends,  _ he says,  _ whether you like it or not. _

She melts further.  _ I love you so _ , she says, and he falls silent, outdone and head-spun as ever. 

  
  


** + **

They fly home via Rome, where Spike shakes the fear of demon into Toby before warning him that Dawn can be even scarier. 

Andrew asks her to grant him trainee watcher status again, so after a day spent touring the local boutiques with her sister, Buffy pulls the boy aside herself and casts a critical eye over him as he quavers before Big Boss Slayer. 

“You ditched us. This isn't a job you can run off from on a whim. People could be hurt. My sister could be hurt.”

“I know,” he whispers. 

“And you came grovelling back.”

“I want to help. Please, if there's a role somewhere…”

“Andrew’s offered to take responsibility if you stay here.”

He looks up in surprise and blushes slightly. “I'd like to.”

She shrugs. “Well, you've fucked up and apologised, and Spike's threatened to eat you… I guess you're one of us. Don't make me regret it.”

“I won't.”

 

Dawn’s mystery boyfriend remains that way, but she spills more than she realises in the bounce to her step and the care she takes with her hair.  _ Bring him when you visit?  _

“I might _ , _ ” Dawn grins. 

“I won't let Spike scare him off.”

“Oi,” he says, sticking his head around the kitchen door at his name, “If he's scare off-able then he’s not good enough for you.”

“He’s not-” Dawn says.

“That’s right, half-pint.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not  _ scare off-able. _ But I thought I should take it slow on the Introduction to Supernatural class. I don't think he's up to the level yet for ‘my sister's a world famous demon hunter and her partner’s a centuries-old vampire’.”

“Fair enough,” she says, eyebrows lifted. “But… we can play normal. I don't want you to feel--”

“It's not like that, Buffy. I just want to get to know him a bit better before he sees the hidden sanctums. Then I’ll expect you to give him the full trial-by-fire, please.”

“Ok. Just… don't be too careful? Don't hedge yourself into missing out.”

“Yeah yeah, I've got it.”

 

** x **

Second day back home and there's been an odd lack of interruptions; Giles brushing off her offer to come into the office yesterday,  _ we don't have to rush, why don't you unpack first?  _

They sit over the teapot and drum their fingers on their cups. 

“Should--” she starts, then takes a hasty sip from her cup.

He takes pity on her. “Dinner meeting here tonight? Can catch up with the watcher first so we look suitably erudite at HQ tomorrow.”

“Yeah. That sounds perfect. Thanks.”

Her hands relax, and he picks one up to kiss the back of it. He keeps it held in his to stroke with a thumb as conversation turns to demon species and vampire truces, statements to be issued and approaches to consider. Xander drops in and a three-way debate springs up over pizza options for dinner later, and she laughs naturally when they stalemate over red capsicum vs green.

 

Giles arrives in the evening bearing wine and no paperwork, and she scribbles notes on a pizza box lid as he fills in news in bits and pieces.

He reads over her shoulder; bullet-pointed speech to greet HQ with, looks like;  _ confirm facts - vampires  _ and  _ handling approaches  _ and  _ put on Vi’s site thingy?  _ in her loopy California-girl handwriting. There's a curly doodle down one side and a tiny heart making the dot for the ‘i’ in his name.

 

She delivers it the next morning, to a crowd of sixty packed into the HQ boardroom - slayers, potentials, watchers, trainees, staff, representatives from several demon factions; and, via Xander’s digicam, to bases and offices and bedrooms worldwide. Council-issued statements over the last month just didn't carry the weight of reality that her singular voice does now, and the new world order becomes actuality as she calmly states facts.

She speaks with grace and conviction, head high and eyes soft, and he loses track of the words in the whole of her, this radiant and all-powerful goddess standing poised and absolute before the world. She ends with,  _ We have given you the freedom to choose. Choose with love. This is your power.  _ People clap.

The camera turns off and the people leave until it's just the five core scoobies ( _ and when did he start calling himself that?). _ Buffy sits down opposite Willow and Xander, and he peels himself from the back wall to join her at the table. The tea-and-biscuit tray is delivered to the room (there are some old council traditions Giles has clung to; proper post-meeting refreshments are number one), and Buffy grabs a couple of chocolate chip cookies before sliding the pack over to Xan. 

Watcher goes all teary-eyed again as he stands to speak. “I, ah, wanted to say something.” 

Buffy nods. 

“I was raised to dedicate my life to fighting a war… I was trained in how to send children off to die in it. But it never crossed my mind that it was a war we could  _ end _ . I always knew you were remarkable, Buffy, but I never imagined… you've changed the world.”

“No,” she says, and she looks at them all before resting on him, “ _ we  _ changed the world.”

And yeah, he realises, we did.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 😢
> 
> Did I get everything in? I'm making a missed-scenes list for this year's Inktober, so lemme know if there's something you want/wanted to see :)
> 
> One more giant overwhelming round of applause for Badwolfjedi, who agreed to help me by betaing a 2k fix-it... that turned into 85k :P She's the awesomest! 💘
> 
> And a humongous thank you to everyone who's left likes and comments! You guys gave me much-needed encouragement to keep writing and sharing. And I just adore discussing it via comments :D
> 
> Thanks so so much everyone!


End file.
